Last year I volunteered to be lingua madre instructor in the public schools. It was a great way to fill my day, meet cute kids and insure that little voices would say “hello” when ever they passed me in the piazza or during passeggiata. You can read about the schools and that experience by flashing back to this earlier post http://wp.me/p3rc2m-8Y.
What I really wanted to do during this year’s time in Pontelandolfo was organize a summer theater camp – free – in English for kids. Every student here has to pass an English proficiency exam and theater is a great way to get a grip on speaking. Unfortunately, I wrote my proposal to the town in a timely manner but was remiss in getting it translated in a timely manner. Che fa! Now its translated but we’ll save the proposal for next year. That brilliant idea thwarted by il dolce far niente, I needed a something else to keep my brain and body occupied.
Idea numero due! In July I printed up fliers that said, ” lingua madre Midge is offering free English conversation classes.” I figured maybe four people would want to hang out in a salon like atmosphere and practice speaking English. WRONG!
The first people to reach out to me was a group of four middle school girls. We talked about refreshing skills before they went back to school. Four turned into six including one adult! What I find interesting was that their text book had them reading and writing at a really advanced level – I mean I don’t know these grammar rules. But no one can speak! Worse, some didn’t remember the simple concepts. The schools are between a rock and a hard place – everyone has to take English but there is no money to put native English speaking teachers in the schools. Imagine if every elementary school teacher in the USA suddenly had to teach Chinese. The same type of instruction would happen – videos, worksheets and books. I had a great time with them but will admit that after a few weeks only one girl and the adult kept coming. Something about homework in the summer…
Talk about learning on the job – Marilina from my favorite morning writing room – Bar Elimar – wanted to learn enough English to talk to tourists. Hell, I didn’t know what half of the words on the bar menu meant and thought where do I begin? I know, I’ll play the ugly American, DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH and provide her with a variety of responses. Then I thought of every question I’ve ever had about the stuff she sells. To make it fun for media loving me, I created a power point and made sure to include pictures of her behind the bar. So the up side is I’ve had to learn all the phrases in Italian in order to insure she understood them in English. Festival season happened and she was too busy to keep coming. But I still have the power point!
I Cuochi Antonio e Nicola.
Then, two great young men studying to be chefs at the vocational cooking high school knocked on my door. Help, we got internships in a restaurant in England – we need to speak English! How do we meet people? What if no one in the kitchen speaks Italian? Whew – who knew there were so many cooking verbs to translate. We toured my kitchen pointing and laughing as they identified every cooking tool I had. Now, I have cooking study guides up the wazoo.
The two adult conversation classes were the most fun. One class had two butchers, a plumber and OK I don’t remember. They didn’t speak English at all so it was really ESL. Oops, Festa season and that class ended.
The other class had an attorney, pharmacist, shop keeper and florist. They do speak English and just needed an outlet to practice. It made me not feel so stupid when they admitted they knew vocabulary but were afraid to speak. That is exactly how I feel about Italian! We are still reading and discussing short stories and newspaper articles. Festa season didn’t impact them. Sigh – perfect.
Guess what also happened? Strangers not in the classes are now giggling and saying “Good Morning” when they see me sitting and writing at the bar! What a wonderful gift.
It is so exciting for us when our friends and family come to visit. It is not so exciting to drive to the Naples airport. We love our family and friends but aren’t kind and gentle enough to drive to the Rome airport to pick them up. We (OK me – Jack is kind) tell them to fly to Naples. Now, after schlepping to Naples numerous times to procure our loved ones, cursing and shrieking during the drive and watching Jack clutch the wheel while I turned green – I started thinking there must be a better way. Couldn’t the adventuresome guests take the train? Yeah, yeah, yeah I know, I’m a bitch but have you driven in Naples or Rome?
Janet Cantore Watson came and found her Cantore cousins in Pontelandolfo!
It is a small world. I have always considered Janet my daughter and discovering she had family where I had family was an uber woo woo moment. Being a brazen lady of the world, Janet was the first guest to take a bus from a stop seconds from our house to Naples. We were told that an early morning direct bus to Naples stopped in the piazza in Compolattaro. That piazza is literally 5 minutes from our house. We were there in the wee hours of the morning. A tiny little bus stopped. I asked if it went to Naples. “Si” said the lying S.O.B. bus driver. Janet kissed us goodbye and got on. As we were leaving a big bus pulled around the corner – h’mmm I wondered? The first bus only went as far as Benevento – the second bus was the right one. Merde. Janet had to figure out which bus from Benevento went to Napoli. Jack just pointed out that the first driver was not an S.O.B since he stayed with Janet and escorted her to the right bus – which cost her €10. Double Merde. After tooling around Naples Janet hopped a €16 cab to the airport. Her experience taught us that we have to over research everything and ask ALL the right questions.
My brilliant niece, Alexandra Rose, was the first to explore the train to the plane connections from Pontelandolfo to the Naples airport.
When she came to visit this fall, Alex wanted to hang in Naples with her cousin Giusy. ( I didn’t ask what they got up to and they didn’t tell.) After landing at the Naples Cappodichino airport she hopped the Naples Alibus Airport Shuttle. It took her to Naple’s Central Train Station. After frolicking with Giusy, she took a Metrocampania train from Naples to Benevento. There we scooped her up in big hugs and drove the scant twenty minutes home.
It is wonderful to have an adventuresome kid in my life. Living in London she has traveled all over Europe alone. Alex has scored thousands of points with this Auntie Mame. Returning to London, Alex was going to do the trip directly to the airport. We hopped in the car and took a short slide down the mountain to Stazione di Benevento.
There Alex was able to get a ticket on a Metrocampania NordEst train to Napoli Termini. She tells me the ride was quick, easy and uneventful.
Next, the ever resourceful traveler jotted down specific directions to the AliBus shuttle from Napoli Termini to Naples Cappodichino airport for whoever was going to try it next. Alex’s directions were simple enough. Tickets were cheap too. It’s €4 if you buy the ticket on the bus or €3 if you buy it at a shop – but we don’t know which ones. She was easily at the airport and on the way to England.
Marta Figueroa – our next adventurer.
Marta, the traveling buddy of my youth, spent a fun filled week with us. Being another world wide explorer she said it was stupid for us to repeat the drive to the Naples airport. We had picked her up there and she got the full driving in Naples and on the highways experience. “How could they be passing on a solid line?” “Is going that fast legal?”
We got Marta to the Benevento Train Station in plenty of time. There isn’t great parking near the station so Jack stayed with the car. I went in to discover that Alex was right – buying tickets was a breeze. The station was organized – just lacked parking which reminded me of NJ Transit. The ticket to Naples was only €5. She got on the train and all was well until she got to Naples. Even though we had Alex’s directions and knew that the Alibus stop is located in Piazza Garibaldi midway between the Central Station and Corso Garibaldi. No one could help her figure out which door out of the train station headed in the right direction. When she finally dragged her suitcase to the right place a kindly gent suggested that since the bus wouldn’t be there for ten minutes she cross the street and buy a ticket in advance. Marta bought the ticket and watched an Alibus come in, unload and leave. What??? Maybe the driver had to pee. A second bus came in, unloaded and left! Now she is panicking about making her flight. Finally, a full 45 minutes later, an empty Alibus appeared and let the throng of people on. Imagine how many people were now cued up, worried about catching trains and dragging luggage. Marta pushed her way onto the bus and then watched the drama unfold. The driver wouldn’t leave until a very proper British type lady got a new ticket. She spoke Italian with great force and pretension. “I have a bloody ticket and will not buy another.” Now, you must validate the ticket in the electronic ticket machine on the bus and it is good for 90 minutes from validation. What Marta couldn’t figure out is if the women had validated it too long ago or it was three years old. She said the shouts and screams were incredible. People on the bus were offering to pay her way. The driver threatened to call the police. She threatened to – well I don’t remember what. But there was much shrieking until – —
The bus took off and Marta made it to the airport with only twenty minutes before the boarding of her flight. Her recommendation – take the taxi!
Some cynic said to me – “Mussolini is dead you can’t expect public transportation to run on time.”
The days are getting shorter, the wind is whistling in the mountains – summer is over. Annalaura, Gabriele and Alessio Iacovella looked at each other and said – what did we do this summer?
A Rainy September Day – Let’s Talk About the Summer!
After a warm your chilly bones lunch of tortellini soup, roasted chicken, home made french fries, local mushrooms and more at Carmela’s kitchen, her grandchildren eleven year old Gabriele, 12 year old Annalaura and 8 year old Alessio sat me down and told me their summer story –
During the day we stayed with Nonna Carmela – she is a great cook! At night we went to Casalduni. Casalduni has – Parco Giochi. (Their dad, Pasquale, is Casalduni’s Sindaco – mayor. The kids burst with pride about that.)
Parco Giochi has a garden, lake with fish, scivolo – slide,gonfiabili – inflatable houses to jump in, and campo per pallavolo – volleyball, bocce, small paddle boats –we know lots of kids in Casalduni. We had fun every night.
Allessio – a real charmer chimed in – Mi piace mar in Puglia! I took a long trip to Puglia with my family. In the car we looked at the paesaggio – panorama – and we saw the flowers, albero d’olvio – olive trees e gira sole – sun flowers .
Gabriele – I was a little bored in the car – the trip was long.
AnnaLaura – No it was short to Puglia – per andare in Calabria il viaggio è lungo.
Gabriele – Per me è lungo
Annalaura – We stayed at the Orchidea Blu Hotel. (http://www.orchideavillage.it/ – San Menaio, Vico del Gargano (Foggia) Puglia)
We went to the pool every afternoon!
It had a pool, un animazione – clown – a person to play with us kids. On a typical day – we went to the beach in the morning and in the afternoon to the pool. That way my mother didn’t have to worry about us so much.
What did you like the best?
Gabriele – Dolce- dolce ogni giorno. We ate in the same restaurant in the hotel every day and I ate tanti dolci.
Besides eating dessert what did you do –
Gabriele – I went to the pool to swim. With the animazione – played darts, calcio in the streets, pallanuoto – water polo and ping pong. OK, OK giocare con l’animazione è più divertente di mangiare dolci.
Alessio – Ho giocato con i miei nuovi amici nel mare.
Those are old people in that picture. I played with my new friends Samuele, Fabrizio, Giusseppe, Niccolo e Raffele. We built castles in the sand, swam, giocare a pallone – calcio and ….
Gabriele – Rodi Garganico – one night we went there too. It was like Pontelandolfo with an ocean.
View from a piazza in Rodi Garganico
Annalaura – Tanti negozi e bancharelle – shops and stands. The ancient buildings – beautiful. We were sad to leave Puglia.
Alessio – But wait till we tell you about our other trip to Calabria –
It is September – how did you spend your summer vacation?
The other morning I was startled when my father’s eyes peered into mine. He hadn’t made an appearance since my sighting of him in Belize. That day he arrived in a big old Chrysler – driving right up the beach – got out of the car and looked up at me sitting on the balcony staring at the sea.
He did that John Wayne gun shot with your pointer finger thing and told me to stop being a wimp and to get on the f’n plane.
Did I mention that he had been dead for three years?
Cripes, I thought, what had I done to have him stare me down in a public place – Bar Elimar in Pontelandolfo? I gulped and pulled my eyes away to see if the image stayed. It stayed. The face was smiling – it wasn’t my father’s face. But the eyes – they were his eyes. My woo woo moment had kinda’ sorta’ passed. My cousin Dominico peered down at me. Rats, those are my father’s eyes. I just met Dominico Manna a week or so ago, but when my dad’s eyes looked back at me I felt like I’ve known this newly found cousin my whole life. Dominico is my father’s second cousin just like my Guerrera cousins back in the USA – that makes him my third cousin or second cousin twice removes or…. Well it doesn’t really matter. He has my father’s eyes.
Part of my fantasy living in Pontelandolfo for 6 months – besides writing a best selling memoir – HA – was uncovering more cousins. Our family tree is full of all of the names that mark homes all over Pontelandolfo – Guerrera, Rinaldi, Fusco, Perugini, Mancini etc. etc. etc. When I look at the family tree, I start thinking that I have at least one blood cell of every single person that I pass on the streets.
Every time I actually find someone with a clear direct link to my nonna and nonno, I get smacked in the face again with how much we are all alike. What was that Haley Mills TV show about the cousins who looked so much alike they could pass for one another? My USA family – starting with my incredibly talented sister and niece and branching out to second and third cousins – is full or actors, dancers, writers, photographers, artists and those who love the arts.
Hand Crafted by my cousin Carmella in Pontelandolfo!
Imagine my joy to discover that generations of our blood line here have danced in the towns international touring folklorico dance company, are incredible photographers, writers, visual artists etc. Others, like me, are arts administrator types and help organize the towns events. Damn that artistic DNA!
I always remember my grandmother, Uncle Sal and Aunt Cat working their Flagtown land. Grandma taught me how to kill and pluck a chicken for dinner. Many here farm their land to produce incredibly tasting meats and vegetables. Gifts of home made cheeses and meats have graced my door.
We have family all over the world – the ones I know about are in
Argentina, Montreal, England, Spain and I can’t remember. Jack and I will have to definitely take a trip to Argentina.
Our family members, when the village could no longer support them, took the risk and re-established themselves beyond the borders of Italy. Even though we had never met, live miles apart and in some cases don’t even know that parts of our blood line intersect we are the same. Hell I know this sounds like woo woo but maybe there is something about this DNA stuff.
Every market day, if I stay in one place I am sure to see more of my family. Sometimes I haven’t a clue what they are saying to me but it doesn’t matter. Other times they clearly share what is bothering them, who is driving them crazy or why today is an absolutely fabulous day. The connection that comes from sharing secrets makes me feel like I have been here my whole life. In reality I discovered this family of Pontelondolfesi a scant 18 years ago. 18 years of returning to the village of my grandparents has forged incredible bonds.
I have finally decided that this is where I want to live – it may be 6 months a year or full time. It was seeing my father’s eyes that put me over the decision making edge. Daddy visiting me through Dominico and telling me once again not to be chicken shit – life is too short.
When we get back to NJ the house will go on the market. Anyone want a farm house with a bocce court and mulberry trees?
August 2nd was Day Two of Contest Musica Live and day three of the Festa. At 9:00 PM – dressed to the nines and with my party attitude on – I left Jack snoring on the couch and forcing myself to put one tired foot in front of the other drove down to the piazza. Gulp, I was going to a concert alone. Who would I talk to, where would I sit, would I know anyone there? The questions I just typed may have floated through my insecure 16 year old brain but the 65 year old knew that I would talk to everyone, sit where I wanted and – hey this is Pontelandolfo – I would know folks.
The first hint that less folks might be coming to this amateur event was the lack of vendors. Many of the previous nights venders were somewhere else. No one was selling shoes and there were fewer food trucks. H’mm I got a parking space really close too. This didn’t bode well for lots of people coming
Look – a pre-lit stage!
Wow, somebody noticed that the stage didn’t look so professional for the first day of the talent contest or else they hired a different company for Day Two. The set up was much more professional looking. There were blacks up stage – black curtains across the back of the stage and a different light set up. Jack said how do I know these things – I just know OK. You’ll see on the video.
The pre show started at 9:50 – a lot earlier than the day before and almost on time! (The show was scheduled to start at 9:30 PM.) The MC – who over the week I began to loathe more and more – did his usual warmup. When the first group came on stage, folks started pouring into the piazza – not thousands but a healthy crowd. The opening act was a fabulous singer and band from Pontelandofo! That explained the enthusiastic crowd. I also discovered that the day before many of our talented young folks were performing out of town with our dance company, hence, could not be bopping and rocking in the piazza. They made sure to be back for our home town singer, Eleonora Di Marzo! She was terrific and so was the lighting. From smoke spurts to strobes it was much better rock lighting than the night before.
Bar Mixed Fantasy had tables set up that gave a great view of the stage – I bought my Campari soda, grabbed a table and started dancing in my seat. As more folks came, I chatted, rocked and rolled and throughly enjoyed the music, booze, friends and summer night. I am not a music critic but can easily say that the bands the second night were a hell of a lot better than the bands we heard the first night. They excuse Jack had given for not wanting to come – before he drifted to dreamland – was the bands were beh the first night, why should we go and listen to mediocre music. Because it is FESTA WEEK and it is our responsibility to go and support the festa. OK, I want to go because it is always one hell of a party.
Unfortunately, my videos of the later bands had lousy sound quality. So you will only hear our local favorite BUT note the clips of the accordion player – his group was amazing doing Neapolitan classics – too bad my camera recorded the conversation of the folks next to me. UGGGG
When my nonna told stories about life in Pontelandolfo she often mentioned the fountains. There is a massive one in the main piazza but there are others scattered among the hills. Some of these fountains date back to Roman times. These fountains were a hub for gossip, doing laundry, getting a quick drink on a hot day and gathering water to drink, cook with and wash in. For generations, mountain spring water has run through ancient pipes and spurted out into jugs that were carried home.
The fountains still exist – but there is a new kid in town! This year when we drove into the center of Pontelandolfo we noticed this big stainless steel box – Acquaself – and a bunch of people hanging around with plastic bottles. Holy smokes – they are getting water! It costs only €.05 a liter for spring water – sparkling or plain. Oh no, I thought, yet another rural ritual blown out of the water.
Years ago, Jack joined Mario Mancini and went up into the mountains to one of five or six ancient fountains. Mario, a foodie and mountain gatherer, knew where to take his bottles to get the best tasting water. They drove miles away from the village center and what did they find – other men filing bottles. Jack was flabbergasted when one of the men turned to him and said in English – where are you from – “New Jersey” – “Me too – Livingston”! That is the magic that happens around the fountain.
The Pontelandolfo main fountain has been a meeting place, photo op and life blood of the community. In the summer kids fill water balloons from the constantly flowing spring water. When that happens I run in the other direction – cross fire can be pretty wet. Can Acauself – a stainless steel box – really replace all that? Interesting question. I’ve gone for our water – I mean .05 for a litter of sparkling water – and chatted with folks who were filling their bottles. Maybe the conversation will continue at the box but I can’t see anyone doing their laundry. The talented Annalaura Iacovella will explain how Acquaself works – so those of you who speak Italian can test your skills – those of you who don’t can read the titles. Happy mineral water to you.
Shout out to subscriber Kathy H. who said “I feel a blog about being silenced is in your future.” Now, Kathy knows I love to chat. We Facetime, Viber or Magic Jack call each other a lot. What do we talk about? I haven’t a clue, but for about a week the chatting stopped.
Run Dorothy Run!
On those chatless days we were plagued with thunder, lighting, whooshing rain and turn your umbrella inside out wind. The internet went kaput. No Internet no chatting.
What? No Magic Jack or Viber?
Suddenly I was silenced!
Yeah, yeah I know – I could still e-mail from my smart phone but it ain’t the same as voice to voice chatting. For one whole week I couldn’t verbally reach out to family and friends in the USA. WHAT!
It was a great opportunity to read books, sit in the caffè and gossip and maybe even play at writing something. It also made me realize that my blabbing about our great cheap ways to communicate with folks in other parts of the globe needed a revision. Here in the hills we have one communication tragic flaw – storms knock out the internet.
Our internet is provided through an antennae on our house and a signal sent from an even bigger antennae somewhere in the hills. When the wind is whoooooooooossssshhhhhhhing the signal starts swirling and may be providing internet to Saturn.
How does one overcome this dilemma? First, make sure you have a good cellular telephone provider. We use WIND and pay ten Euro a month for 200 minutes of calls, 200 texts and UNLIMITED data. Second, make sure you have a phone that can become a wi-fi hotspot. I have an iPhone 4s that works well as a hotspot.
I will caution you, there were times when the storms also limited our ability to use our cell phones but not often.
To make quick calls to the USA – really quick because the more you use the unlimited data the slower it becomes – I would turn the cell phone into a hot spot and call through my iPad or Macbook Air. Apple doesn’t send me dime for saying what I’m about to say (though I would gladly accept the latest iPhone.) Apple products all work incredibly well together.
I’ve installed Viber and Skype on my iPad. Facetime comes with the iPad and Macbook. Magic Jack also now has an application for smart phones a well as your computer. Our New Jersey phone number is our Magic Jack number so folks can easily call us and/or leave a message. (Though I wish telemarkerters would stop calling at 6:00 PM Eastern Standard Time which is MIDNIGHT here.)
Bottom line – I may not be able to sip Campari Soda and talk about nothing with pals in America for an hour but thanks to a good cellular provider and the hotspot on my iPhone we can still get our words out.
This morning when I got up there was a line of cars outside our house.
That is the line that starts the post I thought I was going to write. You’ll get that one tomorrow or dopo domani. It is about a funeral and the funeral/burial traditions of Pontelandolfo. I can’t finish it today. Because today in the basement of the Pontelandolfo Cemetary “Cappella” – Chapel, where the bones of the poor are stacked in wooden or tin boxes, I found my great grandfather. Don’t ask me how I know it was him or how I found him. When I saw the wooden box with the handwritten “Salvatore Guerrera” I just knew. It doesn’t have a date – he died in the 1920’s – but I knew.
There are hundreds of stacked boxes. I may be wrong, but when I saw this box – I knew.
My great friend, Nicola Ciarlo, had taken me to the cemetery to explain the rules, regulations and traditions of a Pontelandolfo funeral. It is as unlike a New Jersey funeral as you can imagine. The mountain is made of soil that is rocky and hard. The cemetery has been used for generations and hasn’t grown in size. People die – how could the cemetery not expand? Simple, after a number of years, the coffin’s are dug up, bones prepared and then placed in a little box that is placed in a nice marble drawer. That’s if you can afford the nice marble drawer to share with your loved ones. But you’ll read that tomorrow. Today I need to think about my bisnonno.
Nicola took me to the church basement to show me where the bones of the lost ones were housed. The place is called “il ossario” – that is fitting because “ossa” means bone. The lost ones either didn’t have family to reclaim their bones or they were too poor to be placed somewhere else. In the 1920s in Pontelandolfo everyone was poor – my family was no exception. They were contadini – farmers who worked the land for a rich dude. Back then, after World War I and the ravaging of the mountain by the troops, the poverty caused a mass exodus to the Americas. Noone had the money to come back for funerals or even knew that loved ones had died. So, in the ossario there are stacks and stacks of wooden boxes. Some were dated from the early 1900’s. Most didn’t have any dates, just a name scrawled across one side. Little white boxes held the bones of poor children.
The bones of children are nestled in white wooden cradles for perpetuity.
As I covered my nose from the damp, moldy smell and looked around, I realized that the boxes had been piled in alphabetical order. I kept walking and found a shelf containing the remains of Guerreras. Since Guerrera is as common here as Smith, I didn’t think anything of the shelf. Then, as though an arrow shot through my core, my entire being was pulled toward the box that said “Salvatore Guerrera.” It has been 5 hours and I am still crying – though now I am crying in my scotch. At first, I thought the overwhelming sadness was because the root of my family tree was tossed in a box and stacked on a shelf. Or I was crying because of how very poor my family had been. Then I realized that I was crying and felt an overpowering sense of loss for all the elders in my family that I didn’t know, haven’t found and haven’t taken the time to discover. I cried from the depth of my soul. The tears refused to stop. Suddenly, I realized that I was mourning. Mourning for my father, my Aunt Cat, my mommy, my Uncle Sally, grandma, Uncle Tony, Uncle Nick, cousin Roseann, Aunt Julie – mourning for all of the people I have loved, who had loved me unequivocally and died. All of the sadness I had bottled up had been released by my great grandfather, Salvatore. My sadness sits inside me and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe in order for the sadness to escape I need to start whacking away at the memoir about finding my family.
Enough about me. Let’s talk about Salvatore Guerrera. He was born on April 5, 1848 to Giovanni Guerrera and Maria Guerrera – since women here don’t change their names when they marry seeing the Guerrera married to a Guerrera was a wee bit disconcerting. But hey, it was a small village and Guerrera is like Jones. The Guerrera infusion in my body is even stronger – Salvatore married Caterina Guerrera. Writing this makes me realize that my blood must also flow in over 50% of the people that I meet. That connection is visceral for all of us and explains why I feel so accepted here. My great grandparents had five children that lived – Francesco – my nonno, Maria Vittoria, Anna, Nicola, and Giovanni.
What I discovered years ago peering through the dusty books in the town hall was that Salvatore had a whole second family! He also married Giuseppa Iannicelli and had four more kids- Caterina Maria ( who died as a baby), Caterina, Michele Nicola and Antonio. It is interesting that Salvatore’s first wife’s name was Caterina and he named his daughters with his second wife Caterina! I wish I could flash back in time and hear that story.
Salvatore was a small man who was larger than life – a fighter, lover, leader. I have only met him through the tales that others have shared. It isn’t the same as seeing his face and hearing his voice but it still links me to him. Here are stories my Zia Caterina, Daddy John, and Carmine Manna told me.
Salvatore Guerrera was Robin Hood. He stole from the rich and gave to the poor. In those days everyone was a poor sharecroppers – like a slave – worked the fields for the rich. They had very little food or money. Salvatore took and gave. No one starved.
During World War I, Salvatore was out hunting and he heard some local women screaming. German soldiers were “having their way with them.” Salvatore shot the soldiers. He then dressed as a soldier, took their German guns and walked past the Germans – right back through the lines. That took amazing balls.
With safety in numbers, peasants then lived in stone attached dwellings. The bottom floor was used to house the family’s animals and farming tools. The heat from the animals rose and warmed the second floor which was inhabited by the family. It was one room. The space was very small and yet everyone managed to live together. The structure still stands in the Santa Caterina section of Pontelandolfo.
Here is the set of row houses that date back hundreds of years. Now they are empty or used as storage space.Here is what is left of Salvatore’s. It was the end of the row and looks like I felt today.
Zia Giuseppina Guerrera, my dad’s first cousin, told me these stories:
Salvatore needed wood for a fire to bake bread. In this time there were no trees left for wood. (My grandmother told me that during World War I everything was taken from them and they started to make soup from the bark of trees.) Everyone was poor and hungry. Salvator wanted to cut down the tree of the the padrona. Remember, Salvatore, like many others, was a serf and worked the land for the padrona. The tree was incredibly large and the padrona said “No, you can’t cut it. I need to tie my donkey to that tree. So in the dark of night Salvatore cut off the just the top of the tree and tied the donkey to the bottom!
Tobacco was grown in the fields to make cigarettes. The police – working for the rich – said don’t take this tobacco, it is to be sold. Of course Salvator took a leaf of the tobacco, looked at the police and said, ” Beh, don’t talk to me about this tobacco. I will smoke if I want to – so get the hell out of here.” Since he was as strong as a giant, the police went away. The next day the police came back and Salvatore was smoking. He was so very very strong and carried himself like a man of power. There was no arrest. They were afraid of him.
He was so strong that he would take things from the rich man to give to the others. The rich man would say – “I’ll give you money to stop taking things. Salvator laughed and said – “I’ll just take it.” The rich man too was afraid of the very strong and persuasive Salvatore.
When Salvatore was very old he told Giuseppena’s father, Antonio, to bring him his cane. “I want the cane. Give me the cane because I want to beat these children.” No one would bring him his cane. He was still really strong – even as an old man and everyone knew if he got a hold of that cane…
I obviously never met Salvatore Guerrera, the father of my father’s father and the very strong root of my personal family tree. Those traits of his I have seen – in my father, my aunt and gulp – I hate to admit it but – myself.
“L saugu t chiama,” Zia Giuseppina, my father’s first cousin, constantly tells me in the dialect of Pontelandolfo, that “the blood calls.” “L saugu t’altira.” Blood like a magnet is drawn to like blood. My saugu, is strongly attracted to the saugu here. She hugs me and reminds me, that I am the only one who came back from America to search for those left behind.”
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 