Bells are Telling

In my mind I call him a little  old farmer guy, although he may not be much older than I am. His grey/white hair is cropped so close to his head you can see his sunburned scalp. He sits in a boxy Fiat Panda, green paint faded, seats leaking batting everywhere, rust dotting the open druver’s side door. A song crackles in and out from a tinny radio, but he seems not to hear it. He is hunched over a sheet of lottery tickets, scratching away. I wonder what he is wishing for. I see him every day I go for a run down the country road that leads to the surrounding farms. I pass him driving towards town on my way out and see him sitting there on my way back. We have never spoken, but recognize each other because of our rituals and always raise a hand in a salute of acknowledgment.
My ritual is temporary, though. After three months of pounding down and huffing up the dusty, rutted dirt road, I will return to my brightly lit, air conditioned gym with the smooth sprung floors and state of the art workout machines. I will grunt and stretch alongside men and women in stylish technical workout wear. Little old farmer guy will continue to sit in his car in his sleeveless white T-shirt or plaid cotton shirt and work jeans, scratching off his tickets.
I will leave the women sitting on a bench across from the church steps, sides touching, slightly leaning into each other, like young girls waiting to be asked to dance. They are actually waiting for the statue of the Virgin Mary to emerge from the church door, carried on sturdy shoulders of volunteers to be transported through narrow alleys for one of the regular  feast days. They may have left votive candles with pictures of saints on them burning on windowsills.
I will leave the town to the echoes of the music of Danilo’s fish truck. It announces his arrival every Tuesday and Thursday at 8:30. Or 9. Or 10:30. You never know.But he always arrives.
I will leave the town to views of newly cut hay lying in curving lines arranged as artfully as any painting. I’ll leave the regular wait in the post office that is filled with talk of why the air conditioner isn’t cooling the room off or with updates on a mamma’s illness.
I will leave the town to its ongoing life, to its steady pulse.
It is a quiet Sunday afternoon as I write this. It is hot, so people are either indoors or at “il mare “  cooling off in the water. Only the pigeons are taking advantage of free water in the town fountain below - bobbing for a drink or fluttering for a bath. Here on my little terrazzo it is just me and the bells above in the church bell tower.
The bells! They are calm now. But earlier they were rambunctious- swinging, booming, insistent in their jubilant announcement of ALMOST mass, START of mass, communion, END of mass. When they have fulfilled their duty to the faith, they continue their duty to time- sounding it out in regular intervals.
When I first opened Casa da Carmine to guests I was terrified the bells regular rolling would send them running. I went to the commune to see about silencing them at night. Or dampening them on Sunday mornings. I wrote a letter to the mayor pleading my case. I lined the bedroom windows with noise-dampening curtains. On the audio program on my laptop I checked and rechecked the ambient noise levels against acceptable standards.
I went to the priest. He listened sympathetically then said I must go to the commune. I wrote another letter. I waited. I fretted. Even after glowing reviews came in. I waited for the other shoe to drop or bell clapper to wallop me upside the head. If only the bells could be silenced! What the heck- don’t people have clocks! Why do they need the damn bells!
A few weeks after this summer’s arrival I stood with my neighbor Fernando at the bellevedere across from the bell tower. The bells began to peal, robust and sonorous, swinging with mesmerizing grace despite their massive size. I threw my arms our towards them.
“Ahhh! Quelle campagne!! [Those bells]
Fernando smiled up at them.
Ah, sì! Nostre campagne! Senza le campagne non si sta bene! [Ah, yes! Our bells! Without our bells we don’t do well!]
I recalled then one visit to the commune. I was talking to a police officer, who would ultimately have to give the safety okay for anyone to go up and adjust the bells. When I proposed a partial moratorium on their ringing, he chuckled.
“Well “, he said, “One time the bells were broken. The commune wasn’t going to fix them. But the old women of the town stormed over to the mayor and demanded they be fixed. We’ve never let them go silent since, But you can try.”
Now I thought of the ladies sitting on the bench, widows all. They wear lockets with their husband’s photos in them around their necks. I imagine them awakening in the middle of the night, alone in bed. Alone for who knows how many years? Sleepy.Wondering “Is it time to get up to start another day? Should I lie here?”
The bells cut the silence and answer “ No, it’s too early.” Or “Yes, go ahead. It’s okay.”
Their vibrations fill empty space like a heartbeat. The women can rise or rest, assured.
And I admit, they have saved me from missing a bus when the alarm didn’t go off, from
 baking bread when I was lost in Facebook. They have reminded me to get my rear in gear when running so I don’t miss a meeting with friends.
The bells, when I leave, will continue to be their bells, though. They are their bells, everyone’s bells in their town, the town where everyone lives while I’m gone. They live with the bells and all the town presents or withholds day after day. They live with their love of it, then sorrows, frustrations, memories, joys, celebrations, rituals. Their hopes for a lottery win. They open themselves and their town for me and my guests to see. They share all they are and all that have willingly, generously. All that is here. Including the bells.

Domestic Arts 101

 Domestic Arts 101

I don't do laundry. Not in the US. Usually. It's not that I've dug into some kind of fertile feminist planting ground. I'm not making a statement. My husband prefers to do the laundry. He is particular about how it is done. And he has heard the horror stories from my children about shrinkage and colorization of white underwear. I suppose even a person fully secure in their masculinity draws the line at pink underwear. But here in Italy I am my own laundress. 

Hanging the wash today on my tiny triangle of a terrazzo, I was reminded of all the domestic tricks my housekeeper, Giovanna, has taught me. She came to me 7 years ago, my second one here. She is a combination cultural,liason and big sister, even though she is much younger than me. Her Italian domestic experience greatly pre-dates mine. You may think "Laundry is laundry. How can it be so different? " Ahhhh....because it is! 

Italy's space is much more confined than in the US. It is a much smaller country - about the same square mileage as the state of Arizona. Given that, and the fact that so much of the developed areas are squeezed in between numerous mountain ranges (but aren't they beautiful!), you have limited space. We in the US are used to spreading out : lush lawns circumnavigating McMansions, warehouse sized SUV's, malls with parking lots spread eagle like a sultan on his harem bed. We are of the "gimme land lotsa land under starry skies above" mentality. But here (unless you are a church), you will most likely have to make due with a starry sky from a postcard sized balcony. So common tasks like hanging 3 sets of bedsheets on one 12-foot washline present a challenge. Nope, no dryer. Like most Italians. Why throw money away on expensive electricity when you have a sky-wide solar unit on the premises? 

My first year here I was confounded as to how to do a rapid turnover of guests with sonlittle drying space. I panicked and draped sheets, towels, dishclothes, rugs over every possible pendant surface in the house. 

Enter Giovanna in year two. 

My first week back, she poked her head out of the back door at a quizzical angle as I was wrestling sheets onto the line. 

"Teresa, che fai? she trilled [Teresa, what are you doing?]

I explained my exasperation with the lack of drying space as I spread my arms to indicate the amount the hanging sheets had already eaten up and then pointed to the remaining pile in the laundry bag.

"No,no,no,no!" she clucked as she came down the back stairs. 

She tore the sheets from the line in one quick, light move, then folded them in precise quarters and tossed them back on the line. No clothespins necessary. Their weight held them on the line. 

"Waste of time," she told me. 

She repeated this domestic ballet twice more with the other sheets. There were about 3 feet of remaining line space onto which she hung 6 towels by letting them sag in the middle and touch corner to corner, one clothespin per two tangential corners. Two hours later, from the combination of sun and warm breeze, everything was dry. There were plenty of fresh, clean linen and towels ready well befor the next guests arrived.

She has taught me other things/

The fastest setting on the washing machine to get the cleanest clothes using the least water.

How little time it takes for espresso to be ready.

That tomatoes taste best left unrefrigerated and eaten soon after buying. 

How to strategically open and close shutters and double paned windows to keep the house cool. Or  warm. Or breezy. Or however you like at the moment.

I’ve seen how much I can do with how little- space, time, energy (both my own and the kind I pay other people to provide), things. It seems much more relaxing, reassuring to live this way, without the anxiety of “Is there enough?”

It’s another welcome re-set for my psyche that being here provides.

Oh, but I still sometimes turn underwear pink.

Summer of Love...or Maybe Not So Much

Thia is the 50th anniversary of the "summer of love ". Bus companies are offering tours to Haight-Ashbury to aging ex- hippies and wannabe love children who see those years through Grace Slick's rose-colored glasses. I remember that summer. It was the start of my "California Dreamin' " era. So much credence was placed on that states' promise of perfect love, peace, and harmonious Aquarian age life that we self-mockingly referred to it as "miracle land". It was a place in which life would be eternally sweet and smooth, and heady - much like the memory of your first pina colada. As the '70's unfolded, the dream gradually faded. We realized that image of the perfect life was a kind of misguided magical thinking.
In the past 12 years or so, Italy in general and my little village of Castiglione Messer Raimondo in particular have become my grownup "miracle land ". I have never felt so attached to a place, so linked to one for its own sake, as I do to Castiglione Messer Raimondo. In the past, a place had only been a location from which to DO something: go to college. start a theater company, teach. But this place - this is home. And yet.
There comes a time with an "innamorato" when reality sets in. Seven years seems to be the standard time market, ad in "the seven year itch". It's when you begin to notice your beloved's annoying habits- like how he or she makes those noises when chewing- somewhere between grinding teeth and clucking tongue. Or when you have to admit "Yeah, my best friend really does interrupt me all the time to talk about herself". Then some little nerve at the base of your skull is set abuzz- squirming like a bug exposed under an overturned rock. You can no longer believe in their perfection. You cannot unsee the sight of that unruly nose hair.
Castiglione was like that for me this summer - my seventh there. I found myself, for the first time ever, becoming annoyed, frustrated, even angry to the point of wanting to leave. Why can't I simply fix a tiny piece of land to help stop damage to my neighbors property below? Why do I have to jump through so many hoops? Why aren't municipal offices open past noon? Why don't handymen return my phone calls? Why does it take 21 days for a check from my American bank to clear the Italian account? At times my internal chatter replicated the bitch sessions I read on websites for ex-pats living in Italy - posts I'd hated and complained about. My heart sank. Being here is my yearly infusion of joy, of unadulterated love, of rejuvenation. It resets me and adjusts my attitude for the rest of the year. But this year, by the first week of July, my heart sank like a drowning person giving up and abandoning herself to hover lifelessly at some murky depth beyond the reach of sonar.
And then. My neighbor Amalia saves the flowers in front of mo house by watering them while I am away. The coleus is three feet high! I visit a winery during the "cantine aperte ( open cantinas) event and sample  the most extraordinarily fresh and smooth red I have ever had. It is being produced by a mailman in his "spare" time.
A guest finds a ceramic plate hand-painted in exquisite detail in a tiny shop near the house. She buys it as a celebration of her 38th wedding anniversary. The celebration of never-ending gastronomic delights at Mario's astounds even me, who thought I was used to it.
The Festival of San Donato, our patron saint, approaches. One morning, staggering home from a morning run, I notice a door along the town's promenade which has never been opened before. I peek inside. There are men inside two huge, cavernous, adjoining rooms. They are covered in fine tufa dust from the volcanic rock on which the town is built. One man notices me and ushers me in. He gives me a tour, explaining that this used to be one of 11 olive oil production facilities (frantoio) in the town. The men are cleaning up the space to create a display for the festival- an homage to the people who once worked there . He smiles through a mask of grime. Then he disappears into a red cloud of dust hanging in one of the caverns. It is 100 degrees out. But he lovingly continues the work.
The first night of the festival there is a talent show. I watch a 6-year old boy play his heart out with consummate skill and aplomb on the organetto, or " du bot", a traditional Abruzzese accordion. As he settles into his chair to position himself and the instrument, I notice his feet don't reach the stage floor. But he doesn't notice. He plays with love and passion. After a winter that has pummeled the Castiglionese with six feet of snow that knocked out electricity for ten days, and a subsequent earthquake that toppled buildings and destroyed so much of their livelihood, these folks find the resilience to celebrate the life this region offers.
One morning, shortly after the festival is over, Amalia approaches me quietly. Might I look at a house in the country that used to belong to her son? Maybe I know someone who wants to buy it? Her son is deceased and she had assumed the mortgage. She can no longer afford the payments. I follow her into the house and she shows me photos. I immediately recognize the house. It was owned Massimo, the owner of the Sampei, the pizzeria behind my guesthouse. I had no idea this was her son. He had provided my guests with innumerable thin- crunchy crust deliciously topped pies, soothing their travel weariness with nourishment and his exuberance. This continued right up until 4 weeks before he died of pancreatic cancer. I can still see him in his signature wrap- around shades, zipping through the narrow town streets on his motorcycle, his 10-
year old daughter seated in front of him, laughing and squealing.
I tell Amalia I will publicize the house on all social media I know. She touches my arm lightly with two fingers.
"Grazie," she says. "I can't bear to go there any more ."
Hey eyes fill with tears. She looks away.
"I'm sorry ", she says.
I'm sorry, too. Sorry for allowing the new view of the good and not- so -much sour me, even briefly, on the magic and charm this place holds. We can love someone, flaws and all, right? Perhaps we love them with a deeper, more profound love than before, seeing them for all they are.
Castiglione, the itch is soothed. You are firmly embedded in my heart like no other place on earth . Here's to another seven years- and more.

L' ultimo Giorno/The Last Day

"You've been gone a long time!"
So posted one of my Facebook friends.
3 months. At first it does seem long. 3 months. A quarter of a year. 3 months away from my dear husband. 3 months of being unable to communicate with neighbors in the instantaneously mind-to-mouth rapid-fire manner of my New Jersey roots. 3 months of living with strangers just beyond the kitchen door. 3 months of being at least 6,000 miles away from any possible hugs from my children. In this context, it DOES seem like a long time.
But here I sit on my last afternoon in Casa da Carmine, drinking a wonderfully wicked strong espresso and gazing across the Fino Valley. The sky is baby blanket blue, the light clear and crisp. The town of Montefino sits at the highest spot, silhouetted against the sky like a miniature in a museum display. Its stillness and perfect detail are simultaneously tranquil and imposing. I watch as rows of sheep undulate across a green field. Another to their left flows yellow. Several softly rounded hills further up are striated shades of brown, beige, ochre, and gold. In the clear air,the squeaky rattle of an old tractor navigating an astonishing steep path can be heard for several kilometers. Church bells ring. 12:45. 15 minutes until the start of pranzo - the mid-day meal. I smell simmering pasta sauce and sausages beginning to brown.
These are the things I cannot take home. These are the things that  make 3 months seem like a very short time. That make 6 months, a year, 10 years, a lifetime seem like they will never be enough. Not to satiate my love and yearning for all these things and more.
This summer was superb. I climbed mountains -even led friends up one. I kayaked an exquisitely
beautiful stretch of Adriatic coast. I indulged in my new-found love of SUP boarding. I ate with abandon - arrosticini, porchetta, crunchy, fresh "fritte miste di pesce (mixed fried fish)", and too
many different kinds of antipasti to describe. I ate ricotta made fresh that morning at the place from which I purchased it and used olive oil about which I not only knew the country of origin, but could point to the very trees from which the fruit came. I dance myself silly at Mario's restaurant. With friends and unknown men and women who whirled, twirled, stomped, and clapped us around to the ceaselessly energized music of "lu bott" - the miniatures accordions typical of Abruzzese music.
Casa da Carmine filled my life with guests who perhaps began as strangers behind a door, but quickly became a part of my revolving family here. There was the adventurous Norwegian woman who allowed me to lead her up a mountain trail in winds that nearly blew us off of it. She held my arm to keep us both anchored. There was the German family whose 7 and 11 year old boys exalted in
launching from ropes into fresh lake water.
"The water here is not as cold as in Germany!" They said.
There were dear friends from way, way back who gathered here for a family reunion of sorts. I was blessed to be able to watch the love pour out and between them as they laughed together, cooked
together, sang together, and relished every second of this togetherness with a joy so contagious it left the house ringing for days after their departure. That this place - not just this house, but the whole area -  can allow this to happen and that I am able to be witness to it all - how do you get enough of that?

The Gran Sasso Mountains

Sun setting on San Lorenzo Winery

Alla prossima estate!
To next summer!

I went to mass today. I haven't been a practicing Catholic in decades. But on this, my last day here, I felt drawn to go. I struggled to follow the readings and sermon in Italian. But, oh, the sound! Of spoken and sung words! The sound echoed deep inside and plucked familiar, resonant strings, some
long silent. At communion I observed the faces and walks of everyone returning from taking the sacrament. In them I saw aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors from my childhood. I felt swaddled in the kind of complete love and security I have known in only two places - at my grandmother's kitchen table and here.
When, at the end of mass, each person grasped another's hand to bestow them with "pace", I felt involuntary tears arise. From profound and often elusive joy and peace. All this is what I want to
offer my guests. The almost unbearably beautiful capacity for perfect harmony in our bodies, minds, and spirits. Although not all, and perhaps very few, have the connection to this culture that I do, this place still works magic. Its magic manages to permeate to the core. I want to share all of this with you. For as long as possible.
Alla prossima! To next year!

L' ultimo Giorno/The Last Day

"You've been gone a long time!"
So posted one of my Facebook friends.
3 months. At first it does seem long. 3 months. A quarter of a year. 3 months away from my dear husband. 3 months of being unable to communicate with neighbors in the instantaneously mind-to-mouth rapid-fire manner of my New Jersey roots. 3 months of living with strangers just beyond the kitchen door. 3 months of being at least 6,000 miles away from any possible hugs from my children. In this context, it DOES seem like a long time.
But here I sit on my last afternoon in Casa da Carmine, drinking a wonderfully wicked strong espresso and gazing across the Fino Valley. The sky is baby blanket blue, the light clear and crisp. The town of Montefino sits at the highest spot, silhouetted against the sky like a miniature in a museum display. Its stillness and perfect detail are simultaneously tranquil and imposing. I watch as rows of sheep undulate across a green field. Another to their left flows yellow. Several softly rounded hills further up are striated shades of brown, beige, ochre, and gold. In the clear air,the squeaky rattle of an old tractor navigating an astonishing steep path can be heard for several kilometers. Church bells ring. 12:45. 15 minutes until the start of pranzo - the mid-day meal. I smell simmering pasta sauce and sausages beginning to brown.
These are the things I cannot take home. These are the things that  make 3 months seem like a very short time. That make 6 months, a year, 10 years, a lifetime seem like they will never be enough. Not to satiate my love and yearning for all these things and more.
This summer was superb. I climbed mountains -even led friends up one. I kayaked an exquisitely
beautiful stretch of Adriatic coast. I indulged in my new-found love of SUP boarding. I ate with abandon - arrosticini, porchetta, crunchy, fresh "fritte miste di pesce (mixed fried fish)", and too
many different kinds of antipasti to describe. I ate ricotta made fresh that morning at the place from which I purchased it and used olive oil about which I not only knew the country of origin, but could point to the very trees from which the fruit came. I dance myself silly at Mario's restaurant. With friends and unknown men and women who whirled, twirled, stomped, and clapped us around to the ceaselessly energized music of "lu bott" - the miniatures accordions typical of Abruzzese music.
Casa da Carmine filled my life with guests who perhaps began as strangers behind a door, but quickly became a part of my revolving family here. There was the adventurous Norwegian woman who allowed me to lead her up a mountain trail in winds that nearly blew us off of it. She held my arm to keep us both anchored. There was the German family whose 7 and 11 year old boys exalted in
launching from ropes into fresh lake water.
"The water here is not as cold as in Germany!" They said.
There were dear friends from way, way back who gathered here for a family reunion of sorts. I was blessed to be able to watch the love pour out and between them as they laughed together, cooked
together, sang together, and relished every second of this togetherness with a joy so contagious it left the house ringing for days after their departure. That this place - not just this house, but the whole area -  can allow this to happen and that I am able to be witness to it all - how do you get enough of that?

The Gran Sasso Mountains

Sun setting on San Lorenzo Winery

Alla prossima estate!
To next summer!

I went to mass today. I haven't been a practicing Catholic in decades. But on this, my last day here, I felt drawn to go. I struggled to follow the readings and sermon in Italian. But, oh, the sound! Of spoken and sung words! The sound echoed deep inside and plucked familiar, resonant strings, some
long silent. At communion I observed the faces and walks of everyone returning from taking the sacrament. In them I saw aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors from my childhood. I felt swaddled in the kind of complete love and security I have known in only two places - at my grandmother's kitchen table and here.
When, at the end of mass, each person grasped another's hand to bestow them with "pace", I felt involuntary tears arise. From profound and often elusive joy and peace. All this is what I want to
offer my guests. The almost unbearably beautiful capacity for perfect harmony in our bodies, minds, and spirits. Although not all, and perhaps very few, have the connection to this culture that I do, this place still works magic. Its magic manages to permeate to the core. I want to share all of this with you. For as long as possible.
Alla prossima! To next year!

Where do All the Old Men Go?

Yesterday, while waiting at the parruchiera of the brilliant Manola for color to overpower my ever more powerful grey hairs, I read an article in "Il Fino" a slim magazine devoted to life in the communities of the Fino valley. The Fino valley is the name given to the group of towns surrounding the Fino River. It's not much of a river, really. More like a stony gash in the lowest part of the hills surrounding it through which water sometimes flows. Apparently, water flowed abundantly enough in the last several hundred years to enable the existence of Arsita, Bisenti, Castellenti, Montefino, amd our own little village of Castiglione Messer Raimondo.
The article on which I alighted in order to give my brain an Italian language workout was entitled "Chiude l'Ultimo Barbiere di Castiglione".  It was about the closing of the barber shop of Belfino. He has operated his shop in the same location - a tiny, cave-like space carved in the tufa stone underneath the church steps - for 48 years, since 1968. He turned 83 in March and has said, "Basta!" He cannot keep up with the times. He regrets having to close. It has been a place to which men have come not only for a haircut, but because, in his own words,
"I was a bit psychologist, a bit friend, and a bit confidant. The old men chose my shop and are sad it is closing. Times change. But not habits. These men still want to have their hair cut as they did at one time - slowly, and in a familiar environment."
My grandfather, Carlo, was a barber, too. He closed his shop in Plainfield, NJ, when he, also could not keep up with the changes. People then were asking for Beatle cuts and 'Fro's and Carnaby Street chic. These were beyond his ken. So he, too, acquiesced to a shifting tide and moored his boat.
I wonder where the men who sat around his shop chatting, reading the local paper, or arguing went to? Where will the old men who frequent Belfino's shop go now? Not only for the haircuts that are ingrained into their identities, but for the company, the camaraderie, the comfort of familiar tradition?
Abruzzo is a region that hews to tradition more closely than any other area of Italy to which I have been. The rituals of life, the celebrations, the food, the music, all spring from the same deep, old, sturdy taproot from which their grandparents, great grandparents, great-great grandparents, and n
beyond have received life and around which they built their lives.

Candle Making

Antipasto at Ristorante Antica Loggia

The Church of San Donato, decorated for
The Festival of Its Namesake

The men still parade the statues of the Virgin Mary and Holy Infant on their shoulders, through narrow streets lit with candles, while the faithful process, chant, and pray in a delicate blend of Catholicism and paganism. The women still sit in front of doorways, knees wide to make a fabric bowl of their aprons as they shell fava beans and chitter away in the dialect I have yet to understand. People still debate, passionately, which maceleria has the best meat for arrosticini - the mutton grilled on skewers that is the pride of every Abruzzese holiday, group celebration, soccer day, or picnic. There are still shepherds in Campo Imperatore who graze herds through its vast, pristine fields to provide the source for this meat. People still communicate from balcony to street, perhaps before even thinking to text. Children run in the square with friends while teenagers flirt and laugh too loudly in their awkwardness and, yes, check their smart phones regularly. A woman will still take another woman's arm when passing her in the street inviting her to her house for un caffe'. Even if she is l'Americana or l'Americana's foreign guest. Men able to the railing at the far end of the bellevedere to gaze out over the Fino Valley, perhaps to ponder where all the water went.

 
                                        Musicians at Val Fino al Canto, the annual music festival in Arsita

These are all done with un-self conscious grace. There are no displays for tourists exhorting crowds following a raised umbrella and continuously adjusting their " whispers" to step up and buy goods. Organized tourism is finding its way into Abruzzo. I am grateful for that. This is an Italy that needs to be shared. It is an Italy that continually keeps its promise of being Italian, to offer what many visitors seek when they come here. It is an endangered Italy.
Belfino has said that he hopes someone younger will take over the shop. If  they do, he will give them all the equipment in the shop for free. I am hoping this happens. I am hoping the torch is passed. Otherwise, where will all the old men go?

Memoria da Carmine per Memorial Day

The last night my father, Carmine, whose first name graces this guesthouse and last name graces my Italian passport, spent on this earth, he bolted up ramrod straight in his wheelchair and blurted,

"You know what today is?"

It startled me. Bolting was no mean feat for someone in the final stages of mesothelioma. The energy and speed of his movement upended my concentration on the episode of "Judge Judy" we were watching, an activity we did so often it somnamulized me. All I could do was bark a clipped

"No, what?" 

"It's sixty years ago today I was shot."

Although I had seen the crater of scar tissue on the inside of my father's knee, he had never spoken about it. 

"You mean, when you were wounded in the army?"

"Yeah. In the Pacific. A sniper."

"Did it hurt?" was the first follow up that came to mind.

Carmine looked at me as though my marbles were spilling out of my head and rolling under the couch. 

"Did it hurt? It hurt like a sonofabitch!" 

I decided to ask something a little less reminiscent of a kindergarten show and tell.

"How did it happen?"

For the first time in the 55 years I'd known him, he told me.

He was on night patrol. On a Pacific Island - Sampei is the name I remember although I could be making that up because it sounds like something he said which I don't remember. He liked it there. It was tropical - warm. He liked warm weather, the warmer the better, a trait he passed on to me. He 

always wanted to go back when there was no war. After a turn-around to enable him to make another 

pass on his patrol path, he heard a shot, felt a sting "like a bad bee sting" in his leg, and fell to the 

ground.

"I screamed like hell. Two of my buddies ran out and dragged me back to cover."

"Then what?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Then I went home." 

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, 

"I was lucky. I don't know why he missed hitting me where he'd kill me. Too much sake, maybe. Got my buddy the night before. He died in my arms."

That was it. He went back to Judge Judy. 

The next day he was gone. The sniper - his disease - got him in the night.

  

This is my sixth Memorial Day in Italy. It is strange to be in a country in which it is a weekend like any other weekend. Especially a country which, for the better part of my father's army career, was on the opposite side of his army. I wonder how my grandfather felt sending four boys off to fight against the country of his birth? I wonder what my Italian friends and neighbors would think about my 
celebrating my dad's service ? I know that among Italians there are mixed feelings

about American activity in World War II. One of my Italian friends, from Pisa, has grandparents on opposite sides of the fence. Her grandfather resented the Americans because they bombed his neighborhood. Her grandmother, who lived close to Campo dei Miracoli and the Leaning Tower, where bombing was off limits, loved having Americans in her neighborhood. They gave her chocolate.

Regardless, it seems there is little doubt that Americans were vital in bringing about an end to a difficult era for the Italian Republic.
A few years ago, I had the front of Casa da Carmine refinished and repainted. When I went to the
"geometra" - a combination surveyor/architect - to complete the paperwork, there was a photo of him with the American gangster Lucky Luciano on the wall. My eyes gaped at it.
"Oh, yes", the geometra said, "He used to visit this part of Italy. You know how he got to be a free man?"
I shook my head.
"His mafia connections. He used the ones he had in Sicily to clear the way for the Americans to land.
He helped turn the war around. So the American government let him go. No jail for his crimes."
I looked sideways at him and tilted my head. He opened his hands, palms out, arms spread and nodded.
"True!" He said.
I wonder what my father would say if he knew that an Italian-American gangster and the Mafia helped him win the war? I think he'd laugh.
Thank you for your service, Dad.
Grazie mille per il tuo servicio, babbo.

Carmine and Me