The procession was a lovely experience, despite shuffling through my rose petals. The whole congregation followed the priest and choir, everybody singing, a great feeling of communal happiness and harmony. The Madonna joggling along on her stand, proudly carried by four village men, down the aisle and out into the sun. To the furthest village she went, prayers and blessings, and then the up-hill, down-dale walk back to the church, more prayers and blessings and now safely tucked into her church for another year.
Down the hill past the church sits Casa di Grossi, the largest cluster of houses gathered round what once was the osteria, a traditional bar and café where villagers would gather. When the old men talk about it, they always express sadness at the fact that it is now an ordinary house. The feelings of communal spirit exude from these places, common to most Italian villages, as people gather for a drink, card games, or just to talk. But those days are gone in Rovinaglia. The ever widening rift between the separate little clutches of houses, caused in part by the lack of this central meeting place, manifests itself in negative gossip, lack of caring or knowledge about each clutch of cottages and its inhabitants. If there is any connecting or caring between people from the various villages it appears between the elderly women as they wander through the village, they will sometimes gather in knots, arms will be placed around shoulders, in comfort. But gossip still abounds.
Luigi’s good old friend the “Cat Lady” has become the latest target with some suggesting she and her husband only care for her senile old aunt because of the extra money they receive from the government. Luigi gets quite annoyed because he knows her so well and says her heart is huge. When they were children, he and his family and the “Cat Lady” and her family would spend the summers up at Monte Pero, driving the livestock up to the high meadows. These times were a highlight in Luigi’s childhood. He hated school and the summer holidays gave more freedom. The families planted crops, barley, rye, root crops and maize. And even though it was a time for work there was still time for the kids to play and have fun and make lifetime bonds. The “Cat Lady” lives in Casa di Grossi, her house fronting the road presents a fresh white face to the world. The rock cornerstones are exposed revealing a time long gone when these houses were built. The windows are framed in fresh green shutters with geraniums dripping from their sills.
We often encounter her on our walks and she will invite us in for tea. Occasionally we accept. Dressed in her worn leather ankle boots, an old straight skirt to the knees covered with an apron, and wielding the ever present hiking stick, she leads the way through the arched tunnel toward the rear of the house. Here begins a journey into the past. Set into the walls of the tunnel are little grilled windows, small openings with ramps leading up to them, and old saucers and bowls for scraps. Every stray cat is welcomed here, hence my nickname for her. I can never remember whether she is Adelina, Natalina, or Katerina. They are three individual women but I cannot for the life of me remember who is who. The narrow concrete lane beneath the archway is littered with chicken scratch, bird droppings, and old tin plates and pans with the remains of animals’ food. Chickens come and go at will and pigeons swoop in for any leftover seeds. The tunnel, about fifteen feet long and not quite wide enough to allow a small car, opens into a tattered old grass and weed covered, rocky courtyard. Various barns and sheds abut the yard, one of which displays a crusaders’ cross in a rock set into the wall. The cross is surrounded by characters impossible to decipher by the layperson. These small buildings are full to bursting with old baskets, barrels, tools and farm implements. Parts of roofs have caved in and tiles and beams lie amongst the piles of junk. Negotiating a path between the cats and chickens takes us to the back door and into the kitchen. It is safer to enter with the “Cat Lady”, who offers protection against the small black dog with lips curled back revealing white fangs and sharp little teeth. Growls and vicious sounding barks demand that we stay back. One command from her owner sends the little dog to the corner of the kitchen where she sits primed and ready to rip out throats. The kitchen must have been this way since her grandfather built the house. The inevitable wood stove is the centerpiece around which is gathered a sparse array of items essential to life in a kitchen. An old sideboard sits against the smoky sooty walls. Hanging above the stove are three wooden chestnut poles supported by bits of string attached to hooks screwed onto the grimy black beams. Odd items of clothing hang on the poles to dry. The inevitable rods stick out from the tin chimney, draped with washed clothes. Racks holding old pots and pans, ladles and tongs and kitchen implements are screwed to the walls. The tea-leaves are brewing in a saucepan of boiling water, guaranteed to be as thick as mud. Beautiful delicate bone china cups, at odds with the surroundings, are set on the plastic tablecloth covering the ancient table littered with crumbs and other food debris, as is the concrete floor where the cats rummage for scraps.
Propped up on a bench in the corner of the old kitchen is Julia. Ninety-eight years of living wrapped in a tiny bent frame of skin and bone. In a world of her own, she no longer communicates but her face is constantly graced with a smile. She lives here with her niece, the “Cat Lady”, who takes care of her, as she is now completely immobile. I see love and that inborn sense of family commitment natural to most Italian families. The old and the young are treated with great reverence, caring and love. Life for this family is hard. A constant grind of days in the fields, of survival from season to season. There is not much time for sentiment but Julia’s needs are met more than adequately and with great caring. I wonderabout communication, even though she exhibits no outward signs of recognition or understanding, her constant smile and piercing bird-like eyes draw me in. I chat away to her and return her smiles, not knowing what reaches her soul. I am convinced that my small attempts at communication uplift her spirits.
After tea and a short chit-chat, Luigi and I pick our way back through the tunnel between the chicken poo and bowls and tin plates. We continue round the village and up the hill winding round the back of the church and up into the piazza in front of the church. This is the only point along the way that our house is visible. It peeks out from behind the trees, for a brief moment the red tiles brilliant among its close companions now roofed in modern dark slate-brown colored tiles.
Another example of how the various nuclei of villages and families have grown apart is the gossip among the oldies about the lovely daughter of one of the old inhabitants. She is a modern woman and her husband is a house-husband. She likes to work on construction or renovations and is remodeling her dad’s old garage near the church, which now looks splendid in fresh white stucco with a new red tiled roof. But of course the consensus of opinion among gossipers from the other villages is that she should be home with the children and she should be cooking and cleaning for her man and she certainly should not dress in those appalling clothes. Those appalling clothes are short cut-off jeans revealing an expanse of muscled brown legs and an old t-shirt covered in paint. Topped off with a wild unruly mane of blond curly hair, she is a picture of delight and would fit nicely into any Canadian suburb. She is one of the few younger people here who can actually look you straight in the eye and have a good chat with lots of laughter. She is obviously a bit of a rebel, admitting that the more gossip she can generate the more rebellious she becomes. Anyway she is just a chip off the old block according to Luigi who says her father is just the same and relishes in causing dismay to the villagers by being differentand not being part of the crowd.
Heading back through Giacopazzi, we can take the lower trail through some houses that rim a sloping piazza. This is where Paolino lives. He also likes to feed the cats and will buy good stuff for them from the butcher. There are at least eight cats here at various stages of life, sunning, playing or just sitting contemplating life in general.
The houses on two sides of the piazza are attached, some look very sad, vacant and crumbling, the families having left for something better never to return or the o
ld folk have died off and the houses fallen into disrepair and decay. A whole way of life is slowly being lost. For those of us from the New World, it is obvious. Our history is minimal in comparison and it is incomprehensible that these little villages are left to die. My heart breaks a little when we go for drives around our valley in Canada and see the one hundred year old barns and miners cabins left to collapse and rot. So much history just ignored and lost forever.
The lane off the piazza near Paolino’s house exits near my favorite house where the grandpa sits. We continue on our way home along the top road. Our chimney is smoking, the Aga is waiting, primed and ready to deliver. I wonder what Luigi will make for dinner? A veritable feast no doubt.
* * *
Our usual evening routine was in full swing when a cousin from San Vincenzo, the Ferrari enclave, arrived informing us of a family reunion which was to take place on the coming Saturday. We had to go and she explained in depth how pleased and excited the clan would be to see their Canadian relatives. Reunion—quel horreur! To me this word conjures up a mass of people all stuck together in a hall, sitting at long plastic covered tables eating potluck if they are lucky, or mashed potatoes, peas, gravy and beef, numerous beers, lots of noise. Not my cup of tea! I have friends who groan as they read their invitations to family reunions. Every year they are dragged kicking and screaming by their own consciences to a remote Saskatchewan town or a downtown Dryden motel.
There are three things of which I knew nothing until I came to Canada, peanut butter, corn, and family reunions. Peanut butter came into my life when I was, unknowingly, pregnant with our daughter and I spent most evenings in front of the television with a jar of peanut butter clutched to my chest, attacking it avidly with a spoon. Corn was something we fed to the pigs in England. But up until now, the other thing, the reunion, I only had the shared agony of friends. My family is very small and very close in heart though not in distance, and a family reunion has never been a consideration. I believe English people to be quite insular and cool. The Angl o-Saxon veins are not filled with the hot, emotional blood of the Latins. Perhaps I only speak for my family but there were never family get-togethers, just the odd visit from aunties or grandparents, the occasional tea on grandpa’s lawn.
After dragging up every excuse I could from my reservoir of unsociability, it was with immense trepidation and hesitation that I agreed to attend the great Ferrari reunion, Lorenzo’s side of the family. The unmentionable side of the family who spawned this man who married Nona and then became a person tainted by Nona’s hate when he left her and Luigi in New York. Uncomfortable in Costa Dazi and Rovinaglia, he returned to his village down the hill, San Vincenzo. Never again was his name mentioned in Nona’s presence.
But here it was facing me, this dreaded reunion! I was fortunate indeed to have my art buddy visiting. One of her strengths was surviving reunions. She and Luigi wore me down and reluctantly I agreed to attend. The festivities were to take place in Bedonia, a nice town a half hour drive away up the Taro Valley from Borgotaro. I was stuffed into the back of the car with no hope of escape. The other two sat in the front chatting about how much fun it was going to be, wouldn’t it be interesting to see how an Italian reunion works, do you think they tell jokes and get drunk and behave like idiots? Oh God, this was bad!
Clutching my friend’s arm and drawing on her life-blood, we went to be swallowed by the throngs of Ferraris littering the steps of the Sanitario Della Madonna Di San Marco. Trying to find a bright side I considered that at least I would not have to spend hours participating in reminiscences because I could plead ignorance of the language. How silly, how naïve, representation from England, the United States, Australia was waiting just for me.
As the Monsignor was a member of the great Ferrari clan, we were allowed to use the special chapel for the family blessing, a beautiful church about which I gazed in wonder as the mass continued, revealing marvelous old oil paintings, gorgeous frescoes and the largest gathering of big noses I had ever observed in one location. It would not matter where I might be in the world I could pick a Ferrari out in any crowd.
Somewhere in the service the strains of a familiar psalm drifted into my consciousness and I was able to warble my heart out happily. It seemed like hours before we were released and even then I had to be introduced to Monsignor Luigi, all ninety-five years of him, and cousins Don Lino and Don Guiseppe Ferrari. Don Guiseppe had nodded off several times during the proceedings, amusingly so as he had to be nudged to perform his part of the blessing at the altar. It was quite apparent that he did not want to be here either as he left quite quickly after the mass for his camping and hiking weekend in the mountains.
Then came the family pictures on the steps of the church, which took at least an hour to organize. The frail old lady next to me was being supported by helping arms and told she could not sit down because they could not get her in the picture. I got my arm ready; it appeared she might die on the spot, but at least she would have her face in the picture. Then of course everybody had to take their own individual pictures.
As camera after camera was produced, things began to get out of hand. One authoritative gentleman stepped forward, bless his heart, and put a stop to it all by explaining that he would arrange for pictures to be sent to those who so requested.
We were then allowed some free time and leaving Luigi talking away somewhere in the middle of the huge gathering, I, and my friend, escaped into a haven of peace and beauty. We discovered a gallery of artwork donated to the Santuario from estates, from devout collectors, from philanthropists of beautiful, beautiful paintings, mostly religious in theme, some dating back to the Renaissance. We wandered the cool hallways and behind glass covers on the walls, we found the architect’s detailed original diagrams of the construction and design of the dome and church and monastery, and we found the artist’s plans for the frescoes, which had been completed in the mid-seventeen hundreds.
We were discovered hiding in the hallowed halls by a hurrying young lady, and called to lunch. Bearing in mind that Italian lunch is the main meal of the day I knew this would not be a hit and miss affair and prayed that there were no designated seating arrangements. That way I would squish between my two companions in a corner somewhere and remain unnoticed. In we went to a massive dining area, already packed to bursting. I was sentenced to a rollicking nasal Scotswoman on one side and two louder Londoners opposite. Conversation zigzagged across the table, from end to end, side to side, my ears rang, if I shut my eyes it all felt like noisy slicing lasers assaulting my brain.
And then came the food, platter after platter. Melanzzane, zucchini, those gorgeous little sizzled potatoes that I thought only Meri could prepare; porcini, chopped, sliced, baked, sautéed; veal parmigiano which I did not sample as I imagined all the poor little black and white calves being led to the slaughter. All this interspersed with sliced meats, proscuitto, mortadella, coppa, pancetta, wine, wine, cheeses, wine, wine, bread, more wine, then desserts, trays of torta di mandorla (almonds), fruit pies, little pastries, bowls of fresh fruit. Finally the coffee, I think I might have run away by now but I smelled it coming and my heart began to sing. Perhaps I would survive.
Some food was brought by guests, but most was prepared by the nuns in the huge kitchen. The “head chef” was an eighty-six year old nun, about four foot six, and as frail and wizened looking as the end of a witch’s besom, but that did not fool anyone. The kitchen helpers knew who was in charge and scurried round following her orders, she working almost as hard as they. Students spending the summer studying, sports groups attending soccer camps, all served the dinner.
Anxiously now, I began to devise ways in which I could escape from the cacophony. The rollicking Scots woman, now screeching in the thousand-decibel range, each Ferrari shouting louder than the next, I could hardly bare it any longer. My brain was about to burst, my head was throbbing! Suddenly one of those magic moments occurred wh
en a complete silence fell. Oh good, it is all over, but no, now was the time for entertainment. The lovely hurrying girl who had discovered us creeping through the hallways, produced a guitar and all was restive and quiet as calmly and serenely her sweet voice echoed through the hall with traditional folk songs. This, however, was just a precursor of what was to come as request time began and thumping, bumping hands and feet marked time with the good old Italian songs.
This Ferrari family reunion was apparently going to serve two purposes, to renew old ties and discover new family members, and also to bid Don Lino farewell and good luck in his new position of Monsignor in Piacenza. The quiet, unassuming, pale man with an insipid handshake, grew in voice and stature as he stood on a chair and began to reminisce, joke, sing, and laugh. He also informed us that we must not miss his show in the planetarium on the top floor in the dome. His life long love affair with the heavens had been responsible for creating the only planetarium in the area. When he had finished his speech people stood to applause him. Perfect—my time to escape. I backed out of the door close by, followed by my friend, telling Luigi we were going to the planetarium. The peace and beauty of the dome was soothing and we sank into an oblivious rest as we awaited the rest of the audience and Don Lino. What a treat, we floated round the heavens in complete darkness beneath the midnight blue sky and sparkling stars and constellations. The only link to earth was the aroma of sweat and cologne and cigarette smoke.
All too soon it was over and with aching necks we exited after profuse thanks for the wonderful show. We found our way outside and wandered the beautiful gardens. Most people were somewhere else, still chattering I assumed, but we did encounter an American woman we had met at the dinner. Luigi and she had a more in-depth discussion about New York and laughing, she said, “We all have these people in New York, we just do not talk about them, but don’t you get a zip out of knowing they are there?” Obviously a disguised reference to the Mafia, about which I knew nothing. Luigi replied, “Well not all of us!” She left smiling to herself in some sort of knowing way. I had heard about an old Uncle Frank in New York who may have had a slight claim to fame, if it was even true.
In Love With Emilia Page 10