9/08/11 Seeing for Ourselves

We left Renzo to his business for a few hours to walk through the city, grab a bite to eat and find a place to stay for the evening.  Walking through the narrow streets you wouldn’t know there was a problem as long as you kept your head down.  Raise your gaze just slightly and you immediately realize that although the streets are clear of rubble, there are hardly any people about and the vast majority of the buildings are heavily braced to keep them from falling in on themselves.  Look through the large cracks in the walls and the level of destruction becomes even clearer; roofs and floors have collapsed leaving only cracked and weakened outside walls.

We arrived at what remained of Renzo’s church…sometimes you need to see it for yourself.



Renzo's home days after the earthquake
Photo by Emanuele Chiocchio



I was last here twenty three years ago.  My father had taken my brother David and me to Italy for a couple of weeks; our first trip there.  I don’t remember a lot about that trip, only that we visited many churches and that my brother and I played a lot of basketball at my zia Luciana’s house while dad caught up with his sisters and his mother.  Oh, and then there’s the part about me almost crashing our rental car in my zia’s driveway when I thought it was a good idea to move it.  I could have used that “hill holder” feature they now offer to people who have no clue how to drive a manual transmission.

We took a break from the cornfields of Friuli to visit Renzo in Aquila, spending three or four days in the church’s residence.  I remember the food being very good since all the old ladies in town wanted to feed Renzo and his guests.  I was thirteen years old and it was the first time I bought alcohol on my own; a beer and a glass of wine to drink while my brother and I watched a movie projected on an outdoor screen in the town square.  Dad and Renzo were at the church; my brother and I were with Renzo’s nephew.  I can’t recall his name, but I do know that he was a true shit disturber.  He convinced my brother to ask my dad what “figa” was (a feline description of a woman’s parts).  I can’t remember what dad’s answer was or if there even was an answer, but both dad and Renzo knew who the instigator was.

I remember serving mass as an altar boy on the Sunday of our visit, not really understanding the words and taking visual cues from Renzo.  I remember sneaking into the upper levels of the church, the long forgotten dusty rooms near the dome that were just begging to be explored by a curious young boy.  I don’t recall seeing any bodies.

All of these memories came rushing back all at once when I saw what remained of the church, what remained of Renzo’s life.  Saddening to say the very least.  But what I remembered most was a leather bound journal that Renzo gave to me the day we left back in ’89.  He explained to me how important it was to capture my thoughts, to record my observations.  Even though I only followed through for a short time back then, it was a philosophy that stuck with me.  The gift that Renzo gave me that day was more than a book, much more.  In a small way it’s why I’m writing today longhand in my quasi legible scrawl under shade of a walnut tree in the sun of Calabria.

The scaffolding and tarps mask the damage

While walking away from the church we heard “Carlo! Graziella!” from behind us and turned to see don Stefano, Renzo’s assistant.  He asked if we’d like to take a look inside.  Unlocking a padlock that any two bit criminal could knock off the door with one of the stones readily at hand, don Stefano opened the doors to reveal a complicated lattice of polycarbonate beams that braced what remained of the structure.  Wind swept through and the tarps covering the scaffolding fluttered.  My parents talked with don Stefano while I walked around and took photos.  But the sun had already set and the light was fading fast.  We took our leave.

No confessions shall be heard here

Only a sliver remains of the dome

The seats behind what used to be the altar



The organ has seen better days

 Returning to Renzo’s apartment later on to say our farewells we found him sitting alone in the kitchen, don Stefano having retired to his room for the night.  He didn’t want us to go, it was clear that he appreciated the company, even if it was just to sit in silence.  In some way, merely being in the presence of those close to you (past or present) has a soothing effect.

We exited using the dark staircase.  The elevator had previously proven to be a shaky nerve racking experience.