journal

iced-over

…

It has been a brutal couple of weeks – temperatures have been in the single digits and snow-fall has been constant. (the northern and the eastern parts of the state have gotten the worst of the mid-January storms)
It seems like it’s turning out to be an exceptionally hard winter and Candlemas – mid-winter – isn’t for another 10 days.

…

The Allegheny, traveling some 352 miles southward from Coudersport, Pennsylvania, is covered by ice and snow. The city of Pittsburgh, as well as most of the small towns along its 352 miles, get their drinking water from this shallow, clean river. The ice/snow on the Allegheny suggest a healthy river.

In contrast, the Monongahela – the river at the bottom right – is a working river and any ice on it is quickly broken up to insure safe barge traffic. (the Mon, like the Nile, flows north to join the Allegheny at The Point – the view outside my window)

…

I saw The Brutalist earlier this week; the film is set in Eastern Pennsylvania after The War. One of the points it makes is that Pennsylvania, in the 1940s and the 1950s, was the California/Silicon Valley of its day; we were the future. California became the future in the 1960s. (Massachusetts, New York, Illinois all had their turn at pointing to what was coming)
I’ve always seen the American states the same way that historians see the countries of Europe – independent but connected. And several states have had their turn at the helm of the country; they have steered the country; they’ve introduced elements that have changed the country forever. And I’m hoping that this independence will help us get through the next four years. And I’m hoping that this state sovereignty will help us avoid the mass-hysteria, the mass-control of fascism.

there comes a time when we must discard the illusions of youth

…

This morning a fellow Italian, actually a Cosentino, posted the above image and the following text:

Dovremmo profondamente rivedere un’idea dell’America che ci eravamo costruito ingenuamente in anni in cui era facile innamorarsi.
We should profoundly revise an idea of ​​America that we had naively constructed in years when it was easy to fall in love.

I replied with the following:

During the years we were growing up, a love of all things American was necessary. That love, that attraction was extremely important in a post WWII era. That love, that attraction brought millions of Italian immigrants to North America, to Canada, the substitute America.

But that era is gone, and America is no longer the beacon calling to us, guiding us through the darkness. In 2025, America is Rome before its demise. America is rich, America is fat, America is lazy and the modern-day Visigoths – the American tech oligarchs – have begun the sacking.

But hope lies in the fact that America is 50 small counties in a confederation and that the extreme of some is not the path for all. The hope is that the American federal government, with its current administration, is not able to force 50 sovereign states into a Nazi ‘goose step’.

Note:
– the featured image is of Joseph-Noël Sylvestre the Sack of Rome
– the image above is from John Ford’s 1962 film The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

Benilde died
Saturday, March 5, 2022
He was 88 years old

…

I took the picture on Sunday, September 18, 2022. The small stone on the grave-marker came from the dirt road leading to the chapel of La Madonna di Portosalvo in Aprigliano. 

Context
1. Sunday, September 18, 2022
An old friend and I drove from Pittsburgh to Narragansett stopping in Scranton to remember Joe Biden, and in New Haven to gawk at the one-percenters.
I wanted him to see what I saw, some 50 years earlier, when as an 18-year-old I arrived at 635 Ocean Road, Narragansett, Rhode Island – the Christian Brothers Novitiate.

Also I wanted to visit Benilde’s grave. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral, and it was important to me to make this pilgrimage and visit the grave and to remember a man who helped change my life.

2. The small stone on the grave-marker
The first time I saw stones or pebbles on grave-markers was at Père Lachaise; they were on Gertrude Stein’s tombstone. And my friends explained the Jewish tradition of leaving small stones on grave-markers to signify that someone had visited, that someone had come to pay their respects and to remember. I knew that when I got to Benilde’s grave I would put a stone on the grave-marker. A stone I had brought back from the road leading to the small chapel of Portosalvo in the hills of Aprigliano. (Over the years, every time I’ve visited Aprigliano, I’ve always picked up a rock from the chapel-road to bring back home.)

3. La Madonna di Portosalvo
La Madonna was very special to the people of Aprigliano. She belonged to our parish and her chapel was an extension of the main church. The rhythms of our hill-top town revolved around the feast-days and festivals associated with the saints in our sanctuary of which La Madonna was the preeminent. (The image below is of La Madonna enshrined in our parish church of Santo Stefano. The other statues (l-r) are of St. Stephen, Our Lady of Sorrows and St. Francis of Paola.)

The feast of La Madonna and its accompanying festival were in mid September. I tasted peanuts for the first time at one of the festival booths; I saw fireworks for the first time at the festival of Portosalvo. And an affinity, a closeness, a reverence for those rhythms have stayed with me.

La Madonna was also very special to my mother and to my aunt – two daughters of Aprigliano. My aunt had passed away a year ago – September 5, 2021 – and my mother had just passed away 3 days earlier – September 15. The trip to the Brothers’ cemetery in Narragansett, with the rock from Portosalvo, became a pilgrimage. I was paying my respects; I was remembering my mother, my aunt and Benilde – two amazing women and the man who was there when I took my first tentative steps forward.

Brother Benilde James
Benilde was the Assistant Director of Novices, but in January of 1969 he took over for our Director who was sent to Rome. In that in-between of January and June, Benilde and I became friends; we could laugh together; he could call me out on my nonsense; I could tease him – and I did incessantly. I got to meet his sister, his mother; I was invited along when he went home to visit his family.
It was also in that in-between that I began my journey towards adulthood. It was a journey that allowed me to become a spiritual person; a journey that taught me how to make decisions; a journey that coached me in responsibility; a journey that showed me I could fall in love; a journey that revealed the value of teaching. And Benilde, in that in-between, gave me the space, the support, the guidance, the helping hand to start that long journey. Many saw him as too laid-back, as too lenient, but I needed the space that his detachment and leniency provided in order to take those tentative first steps. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met and that long-ago time has remained a treasured memory.

As I write this commemorative post, I realize that my past is a vast catalogue of images, impressions, hurts, and joys. Benilde, and my time with him at Narragansett, hold place-of-honor in that catalogue.

(l-r) Stein’s tombstone at Père Lachaise| Chapel of Portosalvo| statue of La Madonna| the road to Portosalvo| Aprigliano

some people
bring back
souveniers
I bring back
rocks

…

1999
The oldest rock in the above pic is from 1999 and it’s from the Alps. I was traveling with Rick-and-Sarah and Shana and Mimi. British Airways was running a $99 special – Pittsburgh to London – and we went. I saw the commercial while I was having breakfast and I immediately called Rick.
We flew Pittsburgh, London, Paris and from there we got a car and drove.
– Paris overwhelmed me to the point where I just didn’t talk, because I was taking it all in
– in Lucerne, we had the best breakfast and the coffee was so rich and thick and black
– we had gotten up and the city was shrouded in fog; the gondola took up above the cloud-cover and there were the Alps – it was the first time I had ever seen real mountains

2006
Seven years later, Derrick, Rose and I went to Calabria. We stayed in Gioia Tauro and did side-trips to Tropea, Martirano, Cosenza, Aprigliano. The rock was from the dirt road leading to the small chapel of La Madonna di Portosalvo.
– Gioia Tauro was not a great place – it wasn’t ready for foreign visitors. Tropea, in August was full of tourists and Cosenza was all but abandoned in mid-August.
– even though Gioia Tauro wasn’t ready, we had one of our most sumptuous meals in the old town.
– the most memorable aspect of the trip was the drive from Gioia Tauro to Tropea – the Calabrian coast was as magnificent as the Swiss Alps.

2011
This was the beginning of my love-affair with Le Marche. Rose had found this lovely farm-house run by an Australian couple – Earl and Suzanne. Set among the rolling hills of Le Marche, this converted century-old house became our go-to home-base for the next three summers.
– the summer of 2011 we did side-trips to Orvieto, Urbino and Bologna.
– the Cathedral in Orvieto with the Luca Signorelli frescoes, and the Emilio Greco’s doors has become one of the favorite places in all of Italy.
– in Bologna we discovered gelato, mortadella and Cafe Lucy; and we’ve returned to Bologna to eat its amazing foods every time we were in Italy.

2012
La Tavola Marche is an agriturismo run by an American couple who have made Le Marche their home. Our week-long stay was OK; it was great to be out in the country away from civilization. The side-trips this time were to local small towns around that area most notably Piobbico and Sant’Angelo in Vado.
– Piobbico was for our afternoon snack of espresso and ice-cream; Sant’Angelo in Vado was for take-out.

2015 – Puglia
Earl and Suzanne got us interested in Puglia, specifically Martina Franca; they were in the process of buying an abandoned farm-house and renovating it. Puglia is amazing, but it’s not the hype the travel press promises. It’s much like Calabria, worth it if you were born there and returning to see friends and relatives.
– Alberobello with its trulli is surreal.
– Lecce is claustrophobic. 

2015 – San Francisco
This was my first trip to California. Rick and I went to see the charter school bankrolled by Qualcomm 

open
are the double-doors of the horizon

…

This is going to be a set of comments organized around quotes and interesting words.

why do you stand by the window
abandoned to beauty and pride
From my home-office window, I look across the to the bucolic slopes of Greentree. Post-War houses dot the hillside referencing another time, another mindset, another sensibility, another longing. 
Hide behind the green, because today’s anger will hunt you; today’s anger will burn you.
And I don’t know how to help:
……….– I’m lost in the rages of fragrance
……….– I’m lost in the rags of remorse.

ils me dirent, résigne toi
mais je n’ai pas peur
I will not repeat your lies; I will not watch you dance; I will not laugh at your clown makeup, at your obesity. I woke from the nightmare; I woke from the manipulation; I let the righteous indignation go.
There are finally new voices; they are a counter to your hate; they are looking forward; they are interpreting the world of tomorrow; the world we will leave our children.
And for them, I will not surrender.
………. – I once was lost, but now am found,
………. – I once was blind, but now I see.

My cousin Dorella, who lives in Aprigliano, recently posted about what it was like going al mare with her family when she was a child. That got me thinking of my summers and my experiences with andare al mare – the summer ritual of going-to-the-ocean/going-to-the-beach.

Paola

mid 1950s, Paola – My dad, Za Peppina – Guiseppina Vigna – and I, along with others from our vinella went on a bus trip to the beach at Paola. My mother didn’t come with us.
The memory that has stayed with me all these years is of my dad going out on a rowboat towards the giant rock – that monolith far, far away – and me watching from the shore. I refused to go.
As the rowboat made its way towards the giant rock, it would get lost in the trough of the waves; I was certain the boat had gone under and my dad was lost forever.
Give me a break! What six year-old knows about troughs?

…

Pointe
des
Chenes

early 1960s, Sault Ste Marie – Summers in Northern Ontario were both short-lived and work intensive. July 1 – Dominion Day – was the official day to go to Pointe des Chenes Park and play on the edges of Lake Superior. All of our Calabrese relatives and friends found their way to the picnic tables that lined the eastern end of park. They would take over the entire area; every table covered with a tablecloth and teeming with casseroles, polpette, pittuli, homemade bread, watermelons, fave and bottles of wine.
For us kids, every year the anticipation centered on whether the water would be tolerable or would it freeze our balls off. The other anxiety associated with the holiday was whether our parents would take the day off and go to the beach or use it to catch up on gardening, weeding, house remodeling, or any other necessity that had been put off because of our fathers’ work-schedules.

Leigh’s Bay,
Algoma

mid 1960s, Leigh’s Bay – Even though the Soo was surrounded by water, to get to most beaches required a car; however there was one that didn’t and that was Leigh’s Bay. Officially a bay on the St. Mary’s River, a distinction bored teenagers cared nothing about, it became the go-to place on a hot summer afternoon for many West-end kids.
We would pile 3 on a bike – one on the handlebars, one on the seat pedaling and one balanced on the axle of the back wheel. Teenagers are stupid, but no one could tell us it wasn’t fun; we laughed the whole way, even harder if the person on the handlebars or the axle fell off.

Harmony
Beach

late 1960s, Harmony Beach – If Pointe des Chenes was the default for the immigrant Italians of Sault Ste Marie, then Harmony was the non-immigrant beach. It was also 30 miles north of the city off of Highway 17. In comparison, Pointe des Chenes was a 15 minute drive from town.
I went to Harmony with Rainer and his mom and dad. Rainer’s parents were great outdoors people and with them I went fishing on the rivers that emptied into Echo Bay, fly-fishing on St. Joe’s Island, blueberry picking on the cliffs that bordered the Garden River Indian Reservation.
But once Ron had a car, the four of us – Ron, Franchino, Rainer and I – would head to Pumpkin Point to fish the shallows. It was probably the worst place to fish; we spent more time retrieving hooks, lines and tackle because the place was littered with sunken trees.
I don’t remember ever going to the beach in Ron’s giant Buick, because with a car you could go cruise Queen. Every Friday night, we rode the loop – down Queen Street, a right on Gore, a right on Albert, a right on East, another right and back on Queen. With the windows down and looking fonzie-cool, we lived The Last Picture Show. 

Cliffs
in the
Reserve

…
In the follow-up post – and time goes by – I actually talk about andare al mare.

Note: This is an observation that only people who have lived in Northern Ontario and seen Lake Superior can make – from the shore, to the horizon there is an infinite expanse of water.
When I saw the Atlantic again in Narragansett, my fellow novices wanted to know why I wasn’t enthralled; why I wasn’t in awe. My answer was that it wasn’t much different than standing on the shore of Lake Superior and looking out.

Scarborough
Beach

summer 1968, Narragansett – I arrived at The Christian Brothers Novitiate in Narragansett, Rhode Island on Sunday, June 30, 1968. Several days later, a group of us went to Scarborough Beach – sand and surf as far as the eye could see. It was my first time standing on the shore of the Atlantic.
The summer of ’68 was a summer of new friendships; of walking in the surf; of praying Lauds, Vespers and Compline; of evening walks through the Brothers’ cemetery and laughing out loud. It was a summer of still ocean waters, of rip-tides and warnings. I learned to body surf that long ago summer; to capture the wave and ride it in. I also learned that after being in the ocean you had to take a shower.
On a hot summer day, after Manual Labor, several of us would walk down Ocean Road to the beach and enter the park from the north end. The pavilions, the bathrooms, the concessions stands, the parking lots were all on the south end of the park. The north end was secluded, remote, lifeguard free. It was guarded by giant boulders and bordered by a wooded cliff-side that we called The Rocks. The cliff-side would later be designated a state park.
One day, because the tide was in and I didn’t want to walk in the surf with my shoes, I cut through the boulders to get to the beach. Coming around the largest of the standing stones, I came upon two guys kissing. Had never seen anything like that before; I just kept walking.
By early September the summer people were gone and we had the beach to ourselves. One Saturday morning we showed up to find that the entire strip had been raked. WTF – who rakes sand and why would someone rake a beach?
It really was a summer of firsts.

the
Hamptons
ocean side

summer 1975, East Hampton – Cynthia and Jay had a house in the Hamptons and they had invited us for the weekend; we braved the Long Island Expressway to visit them.
Fifty years after Gatsby, the Hamptons still had their snob-appeal, their wealth, their singular ocean, their jaded romanticism. They still pulled at New Yorkers, they still insisted.
John Belushi, of SNL fame, rented the house next door to Cynthia and Jay. Craig Claiborne, food critic for the New York Times, was a neighbor.
While in their ocean, I got caught in a rip-tide and got tossed about. It scared the shit out of me. This wasn’t the ocean of Naragansett; it was a violent, undisciplined thing. It was the last time I ever stepped foot in the Atlantic.

Anini Beach,
Kaua’i

winter 1990s, Anini Beach – My cousins had a time-share in Princeville, Kaua’i and for several years I joined them, in mid-winter, for a week of sun and warmth. Instead of reviving my love of sun and surf, these sojourns added to my list of reasons to avoid the beach. In the Hamptons I resolved to never go in the ocean again; in Kaua’i I made a promise to stay out of the sun.
We went to every public beach on the island and where R&D would bask in the sunlight, I would hide under a tree in the shade. Eventually, I stopped going to the beach and stayed by the pool, under an umbrella reading my book – no sand, no glare and when I got tired of the heat, I went inside to lounge in the AC.
The other issue I couldn’t reconcile was the time it took to get to Kaua’i – it was a longer trip than going to Italy. Forget that – Italy was way more fun and it wasn’t littered with old, white people baking in the sun. I could be in Bologna, eating a gelato – nocciola of course – and still get a blush of sun.

Belmonte
Marina

fall 2014, Belmonte Marina – Rick, Sarah and I were in Italy for a three-week stay. We began in the Val di Noto and made our way through Calabria, to Naples and then onto Rome.
In Calabria we stayed in an albergo deffuso in Belmonte. Their interest in Calabria was Aprigliano; they wanted to see the place they had heard so much about; they wanted to see our house where we raised a pig under the stairs; they wanted to see where Ciccio, Mafalda and Mario lived before emigrating to Canada.
In Aprigliano, they got to visit with my cousin who had rehabbed what was once our house and Za Peppina’s house into a beautiful modern home. The outside stairs and the pig stall were consigned to the rubble of the demolition. We also visited the chapel at Portosalvo and they ate figs that they grabbed off a tree on the side of the road – how very Italian and how not at all American.
The evening before we were to head out for Naples, Rick went down to the beach because he wanted to swim in the Mediterranean; one would think that I would have gone with him – I didn’t.
So, I come full circle. I began in Paola afraid to get into a rowboat and I ended in Belmonte unwilling to get my feet wet in the sea that is in my DNA.

…..Final Note

• Of the kids I grew up with in Sault Ste Marie, none of us are sun and beach people. My cousins, on the other hand, are all sun worshipers.
• I put on a swim-suit for the first time in years, so I can go into the condo pool with 3-year-old Gus.
• The Italy of my mind isn’t the beaches of Rimini, Sanigallia, Tropea or Paola. It’s the hills of Calabria, the meadows of Tuscany, the farms of Emilia Romagna, the sunflowers of Le Marche, the marshes of Venice, the olive groves of Umbria, the undulations of Sicily. It’s the landscapes, the ancient, terracotta landscapes that calls to my soul.