Saturday, July 21, 2012

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

Among the many places we visited in Italy was the cemetery in Crespano Del Grappa.  We were looking for the grave of Alma Angela Rosato Tabacchi, my father's father's mother, who died when my grandfather was 14 years old.   We split up at the entrance and headed in different directions.  The names read like a Santa Barbara telephone directory: Torresan, Zilliotto, Melchiori, Panizzon, Bortolazzo...the list went on and on.

Walking through that cemetery and looking for a specific headstone took me back to an early spring day in the late 1990's in Dunsmuir, CA.  Along with a good friend who was from the area, I was hunting down the grave of Antonio Capovilla, my mother's mother's brother.  There were a significant number of Capovillas in the area, but none that I reached out to could connect the dots.  We walked the Dunsmuir Cemetery, the Evergreen Cemetery in Yreka and struck paydirt in the Winema Cemetary in Weed.  A small weathered upright headstone gave me his dates of birth and death, which eventually lead me to find the manifest from the ship he traveled on to the United States.

Antonio arrived in the United States through Ellis Island on March 20, 1912.  Much like my paternal grandfather, he too left Italy at the age of 18.  Antonio traveled with his cousin Mose', who had previously been in America and worked the coal mines in Thurber, Texas.  Both were bound for Dunsmuir with hopes of a better life.

Antonio's life in the United States was short-lived.  He died during the 1918 flu pandemic (better known as the Spanish influenza).  Between the months of August and November of 1918, this influenza spread quickly around the world, with more people dying of influenza in a single year than in four years of the Black Death Bubonic Plague from 1347 to 1351.

My daydream of the Winema Cemetery was broken by calls and waves, indicating the headstone had been found.  We gazed upon our history, took some photos and returned to the van that would transport us to other places my relatives spoke of, allowing us the opportunity to gaze upon the same sights they did.

Turns out we have had this picture for over thirty years, as I have a scan of a photograph that someone took prior to 1979.  The names weren't very clear, but when compared to the recent photographs we took it is apparent they are the same headstone (with more names added to the family crypt).

Cemeteries are full of stories about the lives of those who rest there; it is up to us to find them and keep those memories alive.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

A Recurring Dream Within a Dream

"America," written by Paul Simon, includes the poignant lyric "Michigan seems like a dream to me now."  Substitute Italy for Michigan and it sums up how my continent-hopping trip now feels, as if it took place in another lifetime.  This past week I went between the past and the present, trying to decide which was the dream and which was the reality.  Feeling sleepy during the mid-afternoon (when it would be the dead of night in Italy) and feeling hungry at 3:00 am (lunch time half a world away) didn't help.

As the week progressed I was no longer craving the afternoon nap nor waking from a dead sleep to a growling stomach.  The patterns of this life fell back into place, the daily repetition becoming once again familiar, all while the images of Italian towns, landscapes and architecture began to shuffle further back in my memory.

Carl Jung would likely have a few things to say about interpreting my dreams.  I am not worried about what someone else may think they mean, as I know they connect me to that place now so far away.  What is more important, at least to me, is that I dream of distant lands and people and know it was true.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Long Way Home

In the time it took my ancestors to travel by ship from Italy to America, I flew there, visited places I had only heard of, met relatives I had never seen and flew back.  As with most trips, you are excited about going and eventually happy to return home. For me, this trip was no exception.  Plans had been made months in advance, allowing for the anticipation to build.  Tickets were purchased, applying another layer of reality to what seemed like a dream.  We arrived and our passports were stamped, and thus began our adventure.

While I am happy to be home and with my family members in Bellingham, I feel the heart strings of Italy pulling already.  I will miss the meals we took together.  I rise earlier than the rest of the household, so my breakfast will once again be solitary and will no longer consistent primarily of prosciutto and bread. Dinner each night will no longer be like the family gatherings of my youth, with lots of good food and many conversations going on at the same time. 

Mostly, I will miss the new members of my family, the ones recently met but now forever a part of my life.  Mauro, Paolo, Laura Uno and Nadine, you took us into your home with open arms and we felt like we had known each other for years.  We found we shared more things than what separated us, and despite the language difference we talked and understood each other.  For that, I will be eternally grateful.