We had been invited for dinner at the house of Egidio and Donata and were joined by their son Stefano, their daughter Lara and her husband, also Stefano. While it always helps to have people with the same name around the table (less chance of forgetting) it has always struck me as peculiar when someone begins a relationship with a person sharing the name of an immediate family member. I could meet the most beautiful, intelligent, amazing and passionate woman in the world, a veritable woman of one’s dreams; but if her name was Graziella or any variation thereof, she’d be dismissed without hesitation. Small towns and common names like Stefano only compound this problem.
Before dinner Egidio took my father and me on a walking tour of Camino (Cjamin in the Furlan dialect), the second small town that my father had lived in. The school house they both attended as children has since received an addition and been converted into a municipal building. The river running through the town has been rehabilitated and runs clear. There has been a focus on cleanliness and esthetics. Even if this isn’t a touristy town bringing in tourist dollars the residents are proud of it.
Since my dad left Italy over fifty years ago he’s only seen and spoken with Egidio a dozen or so times. Never being one to talk on the phone and not much of an outward sentimentalist their encounters occur when dad returns to the home country, or when a few years back, Egidio and Donata came to Canada for a few weeks. But to see them together walking down the street smiling and laughing it was if dad had never left. Only by really concentrating on the conversation could you detect the gap. They spoke of how it was “then” and how it is “now” with no real concern or consideration for what came in between. They would each mention names and places and the other’s eyes (though older and slightly cloudy) would light up as they retrieved their memories from storage deep within their brains.
Our walk brought us to the church’s bell tower which was in the midst of reconstruction/renovation. “It’s about time” said dad before telling me how the tower used to noticeably sway when he rang the bells as part of church services all those years ago. At the time someone put a stick in the rather large crack about four feet up from the base. As the bells swung and rang out, the tower flexed and the stick moved in the crack. Bell ringing in a suspect tower: an early form of daredevil activity.
Near the end of the walk we stood between two grand buildings; each on the opposite ends in the spectrum of perfection. One perfectly restored and the other perfectly neglected. Each was owned by the same woman, the lone remaining descendant of a once powerful family. It seemed a shame that such a beautiful structure would be left to fall into disrepair. The woman obviously couldn’t occupy two residences, but she also refused to consider the many offers she had received to purchase the neglected property. Her proud reasoning was that it was better for the property to remain in the family name even if it meant that it would eventually tumble to the ground.
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| Falling into decay |
This same woman is known to ask the question “Do you know who I am?” As if to suggest that past family success not of her own doing should somehow garner her automatic respect. Perhaps she needs to brush up on her poetry; A Livella may be a good starting point.
Miraculously managing to stay on topic, dad told the story of my zio John who many years ago met an influential woman on the street. He paid his respect in the typical fashion by saying hello and tipping his hat. But the proud woman took offence and said that my zio should have removed his hat to pay proper respect. My uncle responded “Madam, I’ll remove my hat when I enter the church, but I won’t remove it for you”.
By traveling to Italy and shrinking the distance between he and Egidio, my father had travelled through time. Old memories became fresh; yesterday was today.
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| (clockwise) Me, Stefano, Dad, Egidio, Donata, zia Maria, Mom |
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