Unrequited
Memories
When just a lad,
I recall going fishing with my father at our summer home in Vermont. Little brooks and dammed beaver ponds held an
abundance
of speckled trout that were a treat to catch. We would leave early in the morning, while the
house still slept. There was one time in
particular though, when our normally quiet departure was punctuated by a rifle
shot.
 |
| Domenic and Mercedes |
For some time,
we'd been receiving unwelcomed visits from a neighbor. The neighbor in question wasn't from the
house next door. No indeed. Instead, it was some creature-life from the
nearby forest, that made repeated visits to our home in the dead of night. We could hear sounds of scratching under the
house. It wasn't long before mom had had
enough and insisted that dad do something about it, get under there, and
literally, get to the bottom of it. His
response was to set a trap for the creature, whatever it was.
So it was
on the beautiful dawning morning of one of our fishing expeditions, while my mom
and two sisters slept, that we opened the hatch to the crawl space beneath the
house to see if we'd caught anything. To
our surprise, we'd trapped the intruder.
To our added amazement, it wasn't a raccoon, as we'd speculated it might
be, or even something approaching a valuable mink. No, nothing of the sort. Instead, it was a shiny fury specimen of the
family Mephitidae, Pepé La Pew
himself, a very much alive skunk. We
realized with this turn of events, that we hadn't thought this all the way
through. What to do now?
Our exit strategy was clear—grab
the poles, the can of worms, hop in the car, and head out. As nice as that would have been, we just
couldn't leave it there rattling the chain like some spirit of Jacob Marley. Even in the Vermont woods, social responsibility, if not
noblesse
oblige, especially toward family, still existed. We decided to shoot the interloper. It would have to be a precise shot. Thinking about it, but only briefly, we
decided that if shot in the brain, it might prevent the skunk from discharging
its unpleasant, reeking load of perfume.
Actually, we hadn't the slightest idea what would really happen, but at
that moment, it sounded good. Taking
careful aim, dad did the deed.
Unfortunately, he missed the intended target, instead putting our black
and white visitor out of its misery with a shot, of all places, to the stomach.
The erupting smell was overpowering
and sickening. The boom of the report hadn't awakened anyone,
so we took off like a spooked flock of nervous pigeons. Hopefully, when we returned with a stringer
of trout, it would help soothe any upheaval.
That was wishful thinking and another instance where we hadn't thought
things through. Collateral damage had
ensued. Upon our return, we sensed it
immediately, both nasally, and to our surprise, visually. The skunk's noxious aroma had worked its way
up through the interior of the walls and had brought the sleeping clan abruptly
awake, no doubt bringing heretofore pleasant dreams to alternate bad
endings. In self-defense, mom had
administered globs of Vicks Vapor Rub
to all their sniffers. As funny as it
looked, it wasn't a good time to joke. It
didn't take my Captain Midnight Ovaltine
decoder ring to decipher their body language, which at high volume, spoke volumes. Our token of appeasement, the fish, hadn't
helped in the least. We lived this way
the remainder of our vacation that year.
Each day the odiferous offense receding ever so slightly, though its
memory persists to this day in family lore.
In a similar
vein, I see my dad in Italy. My mind's eye sees him sporting his black
Stetson Homburg Fedora, its brim rounded up along its edge as if the agate of a
roulette wheel might orbit its edge, safe from spinning off, walking the
streets of Calitri with me. I best
recall him wearing his fedora as he'd stand along the sideline watching high school
football games. He'd been quite a
footballer in his day, and over the years, the old-timers in town still
recognized him for his achievements on the gridiron. It was like living with a celebrity. The Calitri paesani (villagers), many his age, sitting in groups at convenient
spots along the street, wouldn't know this. Though he'd try his best in his primitive
Italian to explain, they wouldn't catch on that he was talking about American
football, if they understood anything at all.
I'm sure most of them had never seen the American brand of
football. Any mention of calcio (football) would immediately be
interpreted in reference to Italian soccer.
It was hopeless, bordering on comedic to observe, but dad, who insisted
on trying, was on his own. I wouldn't
say dad was ostentatious per se, but his hands did fly while
attempting to communicate. According to my
theory, I perceive that while Italians flail their arms, British expatriates,
accustomed as they are to holding an umbrella, and thereby limited to the use
of a single arm, are far more reserve.
As such, they are not quite sure what to make of passionate, hand-flailing
Italians, who in many ways are similar to Yanks, or maybe I best constrain myself
to that smaller subset, Italian Yanks.
Both my parents, Domenic and Mercedes, were
in their late 80s by this time. It had
taken a few years to convince them that they could make it to Italy with us and
see why we were so excited about anything Italian. "Italy, Calitri, that's all you ever talk
about" was the familiar retort we would hear from them. Persistence, however, did pay and they
eventually came around and agreed to come with us and experience the emotion that
is Italy. For our part, we promised to
keep the pace down, and in way of protection, just in case, we bought trip
insurance.
Our first stop was
Milan, a city which to this point we have
not visited, beyond its outskirts, thanks to nearby Malpensa Airport. No Mercato
di Viale Papiniano on a Milan Saturday, the remains of St.
Charles Borromeo in Milan’s Duomo,
or even the grand sight of Teatro La
Scale. No, not this trip. Instead, we headed west, skirting the side of
Lake Como before turning toward Lago Lugano to arrive at Cadegliano, a zig-zag
climb up from Ponte Tresa. Cadegliano is
home to my dad's Italian side of the family. As best we can
tell, my grandparents and great grandparents originated there. How far back, we just haven't researched, but
for now 1845 is good enough.
In and out of
Switzerland for a time, we arrived
without much difficulty. In fact,
crossing the border the last time into Italy, the guard just waved us through
like VIPs, which in a way we were. Dad
was eager to get there. For him, it was
more curiosity than a sense of homecoming. Other than his older brother, who had been
born there, dad was the only additional member of his American family of eleven
brothers and sisters to ever return to his ancestral home.
The first reference to our heritage we came upon was the fountain in the small town
square. Our family name, Monico, could
be seen prominently displayed across its substantial basin. A little later, we discovered a plaque
presented by the grateful people of Cadegliano in 1911. It was dedicated to my great grandfather,
Cavalière Francesco Monico. The
inscription referred to him as a worthy
citizen, and depicted him in bronze relief.
I was struck by how much I looked like him. All I'd need to do was grow my mustache a
little longer, and handlebar the ends. It
seems that his fame all had to do with water.
In preserving his memory, the plaque went on to indicate that he had
been the very first mayor of Cadegliano and was responsible for introducing acquedotto (water system) and apparently
lavatoio, which I'm guessing meant
indoor water service to town homes.
As far as we could
tell, we no longer had any living relatives
there. Those we could locate resided together
in the local cemetery. It was there that
we located a towering stone mausoleum, topped with an imitation wind-blown flaming
torch, dedicated to our family. Over the
gated entry door, flanked by stone columns on either side, a pair of broad
wings, like pilot wings, greeted those who were about to enter. The imagery evoked an icon closer to home, the
torch held by Lady Liberty in New York Harbor that greeted so many Italian
immigrants, my family included. The
wings recalled the pair I'd worn on my uniform most of my adult life. This is where it had all begun for us, home to
our heritage and the simple adage, "Remember who you are
and what you represent", that my dad would council, and which to this day echoes
in my mind to help keep me on the straight and narrow.
We returned to the shores
of Lago di Como later that afternoon to the hearth and home of Albergo Rusall. Maria Elena and I had stayed there many times
and here was our opportunity to show off its breathtaking
views out over the lake. Along with other
distant villages sprinkled along
the shoreline, Bellagio sparkled by night like
a string of twinkling Christmas lights. In
addition to panoramic vistas, there was also the hospitality and la cucina (cuisine) of the Rusall.
Dinner, preceded by a buffet, was thankfully as spectacular as any we could
recall. One buffet item, explained to us
as Carciofi in Umido (slow-braised artichoke
bottoms), was the hit of the antipasto
table. It was a toss-up on which dinner
entrée to select, for both said, "Choose me". There was the choice of Risotto con gli Asparagi (Asparagus Risotto) consisting of tender
green asparagus sautéed in butter in a creamy batch of Arborio rice. But then, also contending for my attention was
Annello al Forno con Patate e Pomodori
(Braised Lamb with Potatoes and Tomatoes).
Ah, no ordinary meat and potatoes. If I had my druthers, I'd have opted for both,
but after dithering only momentarily, I settled on the lamb. I need only add that after a full day and
filling meal, it was early to bed for all.
 |
| Albergo Rusall, Tremezzo |
We have driven directly from the lakes region to Calitri in the past, but we thought
it would be more relaxing for my parents to go by train. It certainly proved to be novel. After all, we lived in
a country that, if truth be said, had lost its train culture. Like the buffalo, it too was
disappearing. These days, what remained
was reserved more for moving freight then moving people. But then, the novelty continued because part of our trip was aboard an older intercity train. It was a surprise to find this kind of
rolling stock still in service. It was an
added surprise we even found this old train, what with the confusion over the
exact binario (track) from which to
board. But then Italians are known for
rarely throwing anything away, least of all train cars. The proof lies in trying to find a thrift
shop or used furniture store anywhere in Italy.
An added bonus was that the passenger coaches were compartmented. Each car came complete with a number of separated
compartments that could each hold six passengers. With their large glass picture windows, opposing
bench seats, and sliding doors, entering one of these paneled boxes was like entering
the nostalgia of an old movie. The romance
and mystique of the Orient Express,
gleaming in art deco, but hopefully absent any Agatha Christie intrigue, came
quickly to mind. Pulling our luggage
along behind us in the confines of a narrow corridor, we passed many already taken
by what appeared to be families. While
searching for seats of our own, we passed many compartments already occupied. It seemed the cabin atmosphere was license to
make yourself at home and break out the food, even before the train left the
station. A few more yards and cabins
later, we came upon one still vacant, and settled-in.
With four of us, and our luggage soon spread about the empty cabin, we managed to
discourage other travelers from joining us as they inspected our cabin while
passing. There had to be a psychology to
it and we thought we'd hit on it. We
were soon proved wrong when, an iffy few minutes later, as the train pulled
away, our door slid open to the sight of a backpack-toting young couple. Students we presumed. The girl, an almost
colorless blond, was gaunt to the point that my dad wanted to give her €10 to
get something to eat. I recall him
actually doing things like that. Almost
a lifetime ago, sitting in the car once, I remember watching as he
surreptitiously deposited a frozen turkey before a needy someone's door. He would often size-up people, as for
instance, a family who might appreciate a turkey during the holidays. In the case of our two travel companions,
companions only to the extent we all sat in the same compartment, his appraisal
was not at all flattering and approached the worst of his verbal condemnations,
"They'll never make it."
It was, however, as
though they had never joined us, for between
their naps, ear buds, and some sort of cell phone button-pushing game, we
hardly knew they were with us. Our only disturbance
came when the capotreno (train
manager and ticket inspector), making his rounds, checked that we had tickets,
but more importantly, that they had their vital convalida date and time stamps.
God and your bank account help you if they don’t! We had made the costly mistake of not getting
this requisite stamp in the past. It had
been only once, yet costly. No ticket
complications this time. As the barely
legible marks on the tickets made known to the inspector and the world, we were
knowledgeable tourists, no longer greenhorns, or worse, freeloaders, when it
came to Italian transportation.
In the brave new world
of connectedness, most modern-day travelers would
find this antiquated mode of travel a nuisance and a relic of the past. With its ungenerous luggage racks, short of
any electrical outlets to service energy hungry apps, and absent any crawling
map showing our precise whereabouts along the line at every moment, why put up
with it? Apparently, it was important
that they kept in touch. We instead
enjoyed being embraced by the past. My
mother especially loved it and actually thought I'd planned it all. I had no objection, whatsoever, with letting
her continue to think that.
Finally, now with planes, cars, trains,
and buses behind us, our intrepid group arrived in Calitri. While it had been a long day, spanning just
about the entire Italian peninsula, most of it had been while seated. Even so, the walk into our Borgo home was all she wrote that day. We filled the
next few days settling-in and resting.
We gave my parents our bedroom.
It is larger than the guest room, in addition to being closer to the
bathroom. We suspected that that would
matter to them. The bathroom, as small
as it is, also took time to get accustomed to.
For instance, they had to be very careful not to slip while standing in
the shower basin. At long last unpacked,
rested from the trip, and trained on where to find things, we were ready to
move about town.
My dad enjoyed his beer. From as far back as
I
can remember, he'd come home from work each day with two bottles of Schlitz in a paper bag. Over the years that hadn't changed much even
on advice of his doctor. In Calitri, he
really enjoyed himself sitting outside Paldo's
Bar along tree lined Corso Giuseppe
Garibaldi. Without any Schlitz available, he more than made due
with labels like Nastro Azzurro premium
larger; Peroni, an Italian mainstay;
and a birra (beer) promoted by a
mustached gentleman on its label, Moretti.
Later stops on other days, farther
uptown, at Double Jack's Pub, introduced
him to equally enjoyable, though new, German labels. It was also a treat for me to share in his
experiences. All these stops and beers,
gave true meaning to a saying of his: "You can never truly buy beer, only
rent it."
 |
| A Beer with Dad |
The rhythm of mom’s
day included making the rounds about town with Maria Elena. Market days were especially exciting for
her. She was enthralled by the outdoor
vendors selling everything from pots and pans to underwear, with baccalla and olives thrown in for good
measure. Not since she was a child, well
before the advent of the large supermarket chains like Stop & Shop and A&P,
had she seen the likes. Yet beyond the
abundance of stalls, with their noisy hawkers, she was enthralled by the
pleasant nature of everyone she met. It
was difficult to advance even a few steps before Maria Elena would stop to chat
with someone new and introduce Mercedes.
Piacere di conoscerti (nice to meet
you) flowed like wine, the townspeople just as interested in my mother as she
in them.
Our good friend, Teresa, tried her hand at teaching Mercedes, who went by the nickname
Merce, some of her cooking techniques.
When she learned that my dad liked polenta, but that mom had never made
it for him, she thought a fresh, homemade batch of polenta would someday make a
pleasant surprise for him. By all rights
queens of their individual kitchens, things didn't go too well. All we could hear coming from the kitchen was
"Merk, Merk come questo" (Merce, Merce like this). As patient as Teresa had been, to this day I
still don't think dad got his polenta surprise!
One of the best
memories is of my dad at Mass at the Chiesa
Dell'immacolata Concezione (Church of the
Immaculate Conception). It was during
the church-service, while Mare and mom remained seated with the congregation, that
I'd spirited dad up the circular stairs leading to the choir loft, following a
bathroom break. The
choir was composed of a diverse group of some 15-20 people. They'd been performing since the beginning of
Mass to the accompaniment of an organist and violinist. The organ, its brawny bellows still strong, atoned
for the tiring violin that I suspected by this point had fallen victim to the
catenary curves of loosened strings.
Dad had noticed the choir's evocative sound, sometimes melancholy, at other
times of a chanting, repetitive nature. He'd always enjoyed singing. His voice, somewhere between bass and tenor,
for the most part, favored tenor. I recall him saying that with proper
training, he could have been an accomplished vocalist. Not long after we'd joined the others in the choir-loft, it so happened that they began to sing the
Ave Maria, the Latin words to which dad
knew well. Without a soloist, the entire
choir took part. Dad just had to join
in. There was no objection from the
choir director, who smiled and waved an arm at Domenic, encouraging him to
continue. Unrestrained, there was no
stopping him. By the third "Ave Maria, Gratia plena" (Hail
Maria, Maiden mild), he was aboard.
While his wide ranging register caught
everyone's attention, it was the strength of his voice, and its volume, that
initially caused heads to turn-round, and up toward the choir loft. A new and strong voice had emerged. You also had to give credit to, as he'd often
put it, his "big nose". It came
in handy to produce a rich nasal resonance, something Italians term imposto for that hum many singers produce verses a wavering
warble that I find annoying. After Mass and his singing debut, kudos came
like buds emerging from a dormant tree. Half a world away, Domenic had made his mark. As a singer, he'd now achieved Italian, or at
least Calitri fame, in supplement to a football prowess, that apparently, no
one had understood. They would know of
him the next time he strolled Corso
Garibaldi!
And stroll they certainly did, arm-in-arm, wreathed with smiles there in the middle of the
street at each evening passeggiata with the rest of the townsfolk. Walking ahead of
us, Domenic absent his fedora and Mercedes in her suitcase finery, it appeared
as though they had done this their entire lives. They were comfortable with the idea of an
evening jaunt through town greeting genial passers-by, and in return being
greeted with a nod or finger raised in miniature salute. Mom was by then a common fixture about town,
as was dad, although word of his singing exploits had undoubtedly added an additional
distinction. Join in Calitri's cultural
traditions, meet them halfway, warm to their ways, and they will willingly
embrace your attempt at being one with them.
After all, people are fundamentally the same everywhere, Calitri being
no exception.
At this point, I must come clean. Unfortunately, as the title to my tale suggests, these are more wishful imaginings then
actual memories. I am guilty of becoming
a prospector, mining for visions of what might have been. While our nocturnal visitor, our
fishing adventures, Cadegliano, great grandfather, dad's knack at singing in
addition to his football prowess, were true, the nostalgia of recollecting
those times inspired me to seize on self-made images. Conflated with
elastic thoughts, far short of actual dusty footfalls, trains or polenta, they
are but thoughts moving faster than reality—imagined yearnings adorned
by invention run amok. My escape from reality, to the immortality of words, was
most likely triggered by the realization that I have now eclipsed my dad in the
number of years he lived. How could it
be, me being older than my father? Truth
be said, neither my mom, Mercedes, nor my dad, Domenic, ever got to visit
Calitri. For that matter, they never
visited Italy or my mom's homeland, France (her ancestry back to 1430), during
their lifetimes. Any trip to Europe was
impossible even if they had entertained the thought, or gone farther and
actually compiled a must-do in life, bucket list. Lifetimes of work to make ends meet, the
responsibilities of raising a family and the passage of time, at first kept it,
and eventually made it, impossible for either of them to experience Italy.
Worthwhile daydreams? Nowadays, when answers to questions are only a click away, where do I go for mine? A false history? Certainly, but can't we write history even before it happens? I fantasized on what might have been had my parents been along with us in Italy, better yet, in Calitri. To hear my father sing, to see my mother smile at the wonderment of it all, that I'd imagined it this way, she and dad along. Where that it were so for it would have been wonderful.
From
That Rogue Tourist
Paolo
No comments:
Post a Comment