Italy in winter - PART SIX

Monday morning I awoke and was eager to go down to the Comune di Albareto and see if I could find a copy of my great grandparent’s birth certificates. Elisa from the tourist office in Borgotaro had warned me that it might be a busy time (they were nearing an election), but I was grateful to find the office quiet when I arrived.

I scanned the wall behind the clerk’s desks, noticing the very large, very old record books on the shelves. Before long, I was looking at the hand written parchment recording the names of Marina Ferrari, and Luigi Scarpenti. These names had been written by hand in beautiful script in 1893 and 1896. Here I was now touching this same paper, and discovering new details of who had been at the birth, the village and exact house numbers. I was thrilled to find out that I did have their parents’ (my great, great grandparents) names correct, and discovered a more specific location for where my great grandmother was born. She had been born in the village of Cacciarasca. My records had only said Albareto (which is like the county seat).

I spent the rest of the day exploring Cacciarasca, walking the streets, sitting on a bench in front of the church, and doing my best to talk with the locals. There were very few people around, and none who knew of my family names, so I sat on the hillside and observed the plants instead.

I sat on the grassy hillside in the winter sun. I noticed that the soft earth beneath me was not covered with one type of grass, but was populated by a diversity of plants. Wild fennel stood tall in places. Tiny chives sprouted up next to yarrow. Clover and dandelion were present. These hillsides were rich and diverse. It was comforting to recognize these familiar plant friends and see them thriving on this Italian mountainside.

Up against a rocky place in the hillside, I spotted a flower blooming. It was a pale green Hellebore, a bulb which blooms in late winter or early spring. I only knew it’s name because I had recently looked into ordering some, thinking how lovely it would be to see a flower blooming during some of the colder months of the year.

I enjoyed my time in nature, and although I wasn’t able to find the house number where my grandmother Marina had been born, I had certainly soaked in the environment, communed with the plants, trees and beautiful views of her birthplace.

Driving back to my apartment, I came upon a cemetery that I had seen the night before. It had seemed to be winking at me as I drove past the bend in the road at dusk, the lights on the cremation wall twinkling eerily. Now I had accidentally taken the same route. I decided to stop and explore. Nearly the whole cemetery was full of Ferrari names. I knew that this was a common name in the region, but I did find several headstones that I believed might be relatives. For some reason, I was drawn to one head stone which was hard to make out. The stone had a carving of a woman on it, I believed. It was very old, and I wanted to know more. I could make out the name Ferrari, but wasn’t sure what the rest said. I decided to go to the apartment, eat lunch and return with some paper to make a rubbing.

When I finally made it back to the cemetery, it was late afternoon and the light was fading. As I pushed open the old iron gates, they released their slow, steady squeak. I walked among the gravestones, and took in my surroundings. The trees behind the graveyard had lost most of their leaves. I heard a rustling in the forest and imagined it might be a bird or a deer. I smiled and sighed, taking in the beautiful view across the valley of the church tower of Folta, and my great grandmother’s village of Cacciarasca in the distance.

It was nearly dark now. The cold winter wind bit my cheeks, so I adjusted my scarf to stay warm. The only paper I could find at the apartment was my file folder of old letters and family tree information which I had printed to bring with me. I no longer needed the letters from Maria Ottoboni Sabini, since I had actually met her! I was still amazed at what had occurred the day before - and eager to think of a reason to go back to visit them.

The local market hadn’t had any crayons when I stopped in to look, so I had to use what I could find among my things. Fortunately - I had one red colored pencil at the bottom of my purse, and a sharpener in my makeup bag. This would have to do. I knelt down and began to rub against the cold, damp, lichen-covered stone. The pencil was so soft, I had to pause and sharpen after only a minute or so. This was going to take awhile. As I watched the pencil shavings fall to the ground and mingle with the oak leaves at my feet, I realized I needed more light.

I walked over to the rounded gravestone I had been drawn to earlier in the day. The one with the figure of a woman. I turned my flashlight function on, and leaned my phone against another stone, trying to give myself enough light to see where the words were engraved. As I began rubbing, my phone suddenly slipped and fell. What I saw took my breath away. The flashlight had fallen, but the light was now shining at an angle, directly to the side of the grave stone. The light illuminated every groove and detail of the stone carving, and what hadn’t been readable in daylight - was now perfectly visible as I stood there in the dark.

I gasped at the beauty of the detailed carving. It was a figure of the Madonna - Mary, the mother of Jesus. She was tall and wore a beautiful draping gown, and she pointed to her heart which was radiating from her chest. I grabbed my phone, thinking - I have to capture all of this! And realized quickly, that my phone was the thing doing the illuminating. I was heartbroken that I wouldn’t be able to take a photo of what I was seeing! At least, however - I could transcribe the words written in Italian on the stone, so I could go and translate them later. I walked around to each headstone that had been hard to read, pointed my flashlight at the side of each stone, and marveled at how perfectly I could read the engravings.

Before I left, I illuminated the stone with the Madonna once more, trying to memorize her beauty. The name engraved below her was Clementina Ferrari. I did not recognize the name as a family member - but I wondered if she might be a relative of mine. The image continued to pull me in. There was just something about her! I was heartbroken that I couldn’t capture the beautiful detail, but eventually gathered my papers to go.

I paused for a moment and looked at the eerie orange lights flickering on the cremation wall behind me. How had I ended up here? I was totally alone in the middle of the Northern Italian mountains. It was pitch dark, and I was standing in a cemetery surrounded by crumbling gravestones all by myself. There was nobody for miles around - yet if anyone had driven by at that moment - they might have been startled to see the glow of my cell phone moving around among the graves. Looking down at the papers in my hand, I acknowledged how creepy it looked. The words barely visible through the red slashes of pencil on the paper. The iron gate creaked open again as I began to leave. Everything about this moment looked like a setup to a scene in a horror film.

But I wasn’t in the middle of a horror film.

Though the scene around me felt scary and foreboding - what was in my heart reminded me that really - I was in the middle of a love story.

I am still sad that I wasn’t able to capture the image of how beautiful the Madonna looked illuminated in the darkness that night. But on my last day in Italy, I visited the cemetery to look at her again. It had rained that day, and the moisture on the stone had a similar affect. She was so beautiful! I have a side by side image below - so you can see the contrast of my first encounter and my last.

The longer I look at her, the more she moves me.

It wasn’t until I was back home that I realized there was something very specific about her message. I hadn’t noticed at first that she is pointing to the flame coming out of her heart with one hand, and the crown of thorns that is wrapped around her heart, with the other.

It seemed that she was saying “The fiery passion that you feel in your heart, Sarah - the thing you feel compelled to share - will always be connected to your wounds.”

Our pain and our passion can not be separated.

Just as much as being drawn to her felt mysterious then, when I look at her now - I’m curious. I have the feeling that there is more she may have to teach me.