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.

Italy in winter - PART FIVE

When I awoke on Sunday morning, I enjoyed the feeling of not having any plans. Being alone in my little apartment was beginning to feel so comfortable. I made myself an espresso, ate the yogurt I had purchased from at Angela’s shop the day before, and got dressed. Although the air was cold on this mid-January day, the sun was beginning to break through the clouds and the views of the mountains outside my window were wooing me. My heart felt the tug to go explore.

I put a few oranges in my backpack, along with my file folder of important papers, and family photos. I had printed out my family tree from Ancestry.com, as well as copies of the letters from Maria Ottoboni Sabini, written to my Aunt and my mother all those years ago. Keeping the papers with me felt important, in case I happened upon a cemetery or historical marker with family names on it.

On my agenda for the day, was to drive into the town of Montegroppo, the birthplace of my great grandfather - Luigi Scarpenti. I was excited drive the streets I had looked at over and over again on google maps.

The road leading from my apartment in Tarsogno into the valley of Albareto was gorgeous. I drove the roads slowly, trying to soak in every detail of the mountain beauty - stopping often to take photos and videos of the rolling hills and old farms.

I was overwhelmed by the ache in my chest, a love of this place that I felt I belonged to - even though I had never seen it before. I was learning more about these mountains - how they were full of dense woods which, in the fall, offered hikers and foragers the delight of hunting for precious and prized Porcini mushrooms. I recognized the oak leaves everywhere, but I wondered what other type of trees were growing on these hillsides. How crazy was it, that somewhere in my DNA remained a memory - a knowing deep inside me which had given me an affinity for oak acorns and mushrooms all of my life? At home in Colorado there is a mushroom sitting on my kitchen windowsill (a shape pressed into copper that my daughter had made years earlier), and a large wooden acorn hangs on my front door.

As I followed the curves of the winding road, my head and heart were having a little back-and-forth dialogue:

Heart - How can I feel so in love with these mountains? It’s like love at first sight - over and over, around every bend!

Head - I know, it’s weird, because you don’t even belong here.

Heart - Well, my blood relatives came from this very place. Surely that is why I feel a connection…

Head - If you say so - but don’t get carried away. Remember, your connection here is distant. Your great grandparents left over 100 years ago!

I followed the sign pointing to Montegroppo, and drove on until I could see a tall grey spire of the church up on the hillside to the right. I followed the narrow road all the way up to the church and parked next to a war memorial statue. Tommy Sabini (who I had discovered on Instagram) had told me about this church, and that some Sabini names were listed on the memorial.

I got out of my car, read the names (noticing another family name, Mezzetta) and then stood for awhile, taking in the view. The church wasn’t open, so I sat on the steps and let my hands feel the smooth, old stones. Surely some of my family members had stood here on their way in to mass, baptisms and weddings - probably hundreds of times. Tears filled my eyes, as I pictured them making the decision to leave for America. Although times were hard, it still must have been a painful decision to leave such a beautiful place filled with family, friends and all of their lifelong memories.

I explored a bit behind the church and saw that there was a road that went up behind it.  I walked up awhile, curious where it would lead. As I rounded a bend, my eyes caught the movement of white windmills, way up on top of the mountains in the distance. Suddenly, I realized that the tiny chapel Tommy Sabini (my Instagram friend from Reno) had described, must be up near the top. 

I felt the tug to get up there. I hadn’t planned on it when I’d parked my car… I had no idea how far it was, or how long it would take. I paused for a moment, realizing I had left my water bottle in the car. I wondered how far away it actually was? Those windmills looked pretty tiny. Since I had already walked about 10 minutes up the road, I decided that the two small oranges I was carrying in my backpack would have to do. I was already on my way! I had the whole day free, and no other plans. The sun was shining, the views all around me were gorgeous… it felt like the perfect day for an adventure.

As I began walking, I reminded myself where I was. I smiled as I let it all sink in. What an incredible privilege to be looking at the very mountains my family might have looked at, to be breathing this crisp Italian mountain air! I took photos the whole way up, feeling a sense of wonder and awe.  Something within me knew that this road I was walking had also been one that my great grandparents had walked. I was reminded of the story Tommy Sabini had told me, that the entire family of an immigrant would walk with them up to the chapel, as a send off when they would leave for America.

I walked and prayed.

I walked and cried.

I soaked in all of the tiny beautiful details, the old stone walls, the drainage ditches covered in moss. I would round a bend, and an entire stretch of road in the shade was covered in ice. Stepping out of the shade and into the sunshine, my body warmed again and I’d notice some bright red rose hips glinting in the sunshine, a generous invitation for the birds.

I decided I wanted to speak aloud what was in my heart, but in Italian.

Instead of my grandmother sending words to me as I fell asleep - this time I would say some words back to her - to all of my ancestors.  I used my translation app to figure out how to form a phrase.  I repeated it like a mantra as I walked, cried, prayed and walked some more. 

“ Voglio conoscerti, la mia famiglia. Parlami, guidami.”   

I repeated it over and over until I had it memorized. 

It means:

 I want to know you, my family. Speak to me. Guide me.

It felt like every step I took was a prayer. The tears rolling off my cheeks were prayers, Just being there was a prayer.

Speaking those words in Italian through tears, I could picture my family members who had emigrated from this place to America all those years before, walking behind me, around me.  I walked and cried and spoke. “Voglio conoscerti, la mia famiglia, parlami, guidami:... it was a powerful and moving experience. 

I ate my first orange after becoming really thirsty about halfway up the hill.  I passed a few old houses and what looked like old farms as I was walking. I could only imagine how incredible it would be to live up on this mountain!  What breathtaking views! At one point, rounding a bend, I saw a man out in his driveway, and I wondered if he would think it strange seeing me just walking alone up the hill.  I jumped, because before he saw me - he let out a large, loud belch! It made me laugh, but I didn’t make a sound. Just then, he saw me, and I felt embarrassed for him. I just smiled, said buongiorno and kept walking. 

I was surprised as I began to hear a loud, low whirl as I got closer to the windmills. I hadn’t expected them to make any noise - but the sound reminded me how very huge they were. Rounding the last bend in the road, I finally saw the small chapel. It turned out to be about a 3 mile walk to the very top, and took me about an hour and a half at my meandering pace.

I walked up close to get a better look at the little chapel, and saw that it was called the Cappellatta. 

My heart sank a bit when I saw the date on the top of the chapel, it had been built in 1933.  Since my great grandparents had left in 1917, this meant that the little chapel wouldn’t have been there when my relatives emigrated.  I consoled myself, thinking that it was still possible this was the route they might have taken. I took photos from a WW2 war memorial plaque that was up there, noticing some men with the last names Ferrari and Sabini. 

I took in the view, noting that the crest of this mountain was the dividing line between Emilia Romagna and Liguria. If you went down the other side, you would eventually make it to the sea.  It had been a great walk, and what an adventure. I started to go back down, eating my second orange for energy.

After only about 5 minutes, a car passed me on the road with a man driving, whom I smiled at.  He obviously turned around by the Cappellatta, and this time, stopped and rolled down his window. I said hello, and he began speaking in Italian. I apologized, saying I only speak a little, and rehearsed a sentence I’d practiced over and over again. I told him that I had traveled from America. That my great grandfather Luigi Scarpenti was born in Montegroppo, and my great grandmother Marina Ferrari was born in Albareto. He squinted, shook his head and seemed to say - No, I don’t know anyone by those names.  I smiled saying no problem and thank you. He also asked if I wanted a ride down the mountain. Trying to use my facial expression to be polite, I said no, grazie.

I held back the tears of disappointment as I watched him drive away. Yet another person who hadn’t recognized my family names. It’s ok, Sarah - just be open. Remember what you heard, cerco settimana. The week is not over yet. You still have four days to search!

I watched the man’s car snake down the winding road below me.  I took a deep breath - It would be a long walk back to the church where my car was parked.

All of a sudden - I saw the man’s car stop and turn around.  He started driving back towards me on the road. When he reached me, he was talking really fast, and I couldn’t understand him. 

There was one word he said, that I definitely understood, he had said Scarpenti. I paused asking him to slow down, and then said - Come ti chiami? - What is your name?

Sabini, he said.  My heart seemed to stop. 

The only two names of possible relatives that I knew might be alive and still in Montegroppo were Ivo and Ubaldo Sabini.

Ivo? I asked, trying to contain my emotion.  No - Ivo e mio fratello ( Ivo is my brother) before he could say his own name - I knew who he was. Ubaldo.

I was in shock - and I understood completely. I was talking to Ubaldo Sabini, the son of Maria Ottoboni Sabini who had written those letters to my aunt and then my mother 30 years ago.  Amazingly, I actually had the letters right there in my backpack. I pulled out the Italian copy of the letter and pointed to his mother’s name at the bottom. He nodded, but his face was hard to read - I was nervous that he would see what the letter was about, and think that I too, was another American family member now wanting to claim some property from 30 years ago - he did say quella è mia madre ( that is my mother)  - so I knew he had understood. He started pointing down the hill, and as fast as I could, I went around and got in his car. 

He started driving down the mountain, and was talking and talking but I couldn’t understand a thing he was saying.  I was furiously typing into my google translate app, trying to tell him one sentence at a time. I said that I had come from America hoping to find some family. 

I typed and spoke - I am so happy. This is amazing. I couldn’t make my brain say anything meaningful.

Suddenly he pulled into his driveway - and I realized…. he had been the man I walked past on the road - the one who had belched!  I laughed to myself at this unbelievable day. But then he pointed and said mia madre.  I was overcome as I looked and saw an old, frail woman standing in the driveway. I just burst into tears, I walked up to her - shocked to see that Maria Ottoboni Sabini was still alive! I held her hand, kissed her cheek and told her my name. She was 86 years old, and looked at me with a confused expression on her face. I’m sure she was thinking,  Who is this crazy stranger in tears, kissing my cheek?  

They invited me inside, and I was just doing my best to understand a few words here and there. The two of them were talking to each other, and then started pulling out old photos from one of their cabinets. It felt chaotic and I could hear their frustration with each other as they were trying to show me photos.

My body was not able to process everything at once. An hour ago I had been walking up a mountain, overwhelmed with tears and gratitude, asking my ancestors to guide me. Was I really now standing inside the home of a family member? It was true. I had found the very cousin - the only name I knew who was a link to my great-grandparents. I was shocked and amazed, but also a bit worried and confused by their reaction to me.

In my little bit of Italian, I explained the family connection. In all my ancestry searches, I had been unsure how Maria Ottoboni Sabini was related to me - but I was about to find out … I was standing in front of her! I pulled out the little photo album I had made to bring with me. I opened it to a photo picturing me, my mother, my grandmother and my great grandmother. Four generations of Italians. I showed them a photo of the two great grandparents of mine who had once lived in these mountains. I asked Ubaldo what his mother’s parent’s names were. I learned that her father was Federico Ottoboni, and her mother was Amabile Scarpenti. There was the family link! Eventually as we talked, I learned that her grandfather, Antonio Scarpenti - was my great, great grandfather!

This little 86 year old woman sitting beside me was my first cousin, twice removed.

After offering me some coffee, Ubaldo kept trying to ask me things that I didn’t understand. My phone had died, so I was on my own, and was struggling to remember enough Italian to reply. We did our best for about 20 more minutes, but I finally told him I would have to come back later with an interpreter. I felt completely amazed and totally frustrated at the same time. Io ritorno domani was all I could come up with. (I return tomorrow). He seemed to understand, nodding - then gave me a ride down to where my car was parked.

I drove down the mountain and through the town of Montegroppo in a daze. Suddenly, I remembered my desire to sit somewhere quiet in the woods, and collect a bit of soil. On my 3 mile uphill walk, there hadn’t been a good place to stop or sit alone. Spotting the perfect place off the side of the road just then, I pulled the car over. I sent a text message to Mirko, the translator I had met the day beore - telling him I had found my family, and would he be willing to help me talk with them?

I got out of the car, walked just far enough from the road and found a soft place to sit against a tree.

The sun was peeking through the forest, and I could feel the warmth of the winter sun on my face as it was getting ready to go down. I let the tears fall, and just said thank you, thank you, thank you. I was so amazed and grateful to God (and releasing my grasp on how the universe works) thanked my ancestors who had obviously guided me in such a miraculous way - bringing my family to me as I walked along the road.

I reached over and collected a handful of rich, forest soil next to the place I was sitting. I put it inside my backpack and paused to look up at the tree I was leaning against, as well as the leaves around me. It wasn’t an oak tree. I spoke aloud - addressing my Grandpa Luigi. I bet you knew this forest well, I wish you could tell me what kind of tree this is. I want to know more about you. About the food you ate. Did you forage for mushrooms? What else did you hunt for in these mountains? As I moved to get up, I pulled back suddenly in pain. Something sharp had poked my ankle. I looked closer, and it was a hull of some sort. It reminded me of the hulls from a buckeye tree we had at my home growing up. But instead of just being a furry-like buckeye shell - this one was covered in sharp spines.

As I walked back to my car, the phone rang. It was Mirko - offering generously to come right then. I waited for him by the road, and we went back to Ubaldo and Maria’s house together. With the help of translation, sitting with Ubaldo and Maria the second time felt so different. This time, I could understand everything, and Ubaldo was smiling. It was beginning to sink in - these people were my family. 

We laughed in amazement at the miraculous way we had found each other. Mirko helped confirm the fact that Maria’s mother Amabile Scarpenti was my great grandfather Luigi’s sister. I was amazed that Maria (at age 86) even remembered Luigi - since he had gone to America before she was born. I suppose, since he was her uncle, the family had kept in touch with him. Or maybe he had returned once to visit?  She told me the story. Antonio Scarpenti (my great, great grandfather) was her grandfather. Antonio had gone to America in 1904 to work on a ranch in San Jose. He returned to Montegroppo with enough money to build the family a home, and to then send his three sons to San Jose as well.

Sitting there at the table listening to Maria’s words, hearing her pronounce San Jose in Italian - I was amazed. I had been born in San Jose... and I would not have existed if our mutual grandfather Antonio Scarpenti not taken the risk of traveling across an ocean.

At the risk of taking too much time, I asked Mirko if they would explain some of the foods that people in this region had once grown and eaten. I listened, as Ubaldo explained that they raised cows on these hillsides, had chickens, grew vegetables as well as corn for polenta. Much of their food was foraged from the forest. Porcini mushrooms, and one other main thing. Mirko stopped. He didn’t know the english term for it - castagne. He began to say it grows on a tree, and is like a nut. Acorns? I guessed… no. Then he said - it grows inside a shell with sharp spines on it.

Instantly, I remembered the tree I had been leaning against, just a bit earlier in the day.

Chestnut! He remembered. This was one of their main food staples. They would gather the chestnuts, dry them and make flour with it. It is called farina di castagne. Chestnut flour.

Ubaldo got up to show me a bag of this flour, and his enthusiasm about it’s flavor (that it was naturally sweet) was evident.

As I watched him explain how they use it for cooking, my heart warmed. I was receiving the answer from my great grandfather Luigi, through my cousin Ubaldo. This had been a large part of his diet growing up in these mountains.

The events of this Sunday remain with me still, as one of the most miraculous events of my life.

I had been moved by the beauty of the mountains, led to speak some words in Italian, walked prayerfully and ended up in the home of a relative. I had been given an answer to a question I had always wondered - what kind of food did my relatives eat?

If I could have had more gratitude in my heart that day, I’m not sure where it would have fit.

After sharing the story with my mother that evening, I fell asleep easily that night.

No new words were necessary.