Dia de los Muertos

On this day of all days,
this Dia de los Muertos,
a coincident.
Not a dream, I was wide awake.
Hallucination, apparition, vision?
Spawned by pain and/or medication?
Perhaps. Whatever.
But though dead for many years,
he was for moments
as real as you are
at my side
and made me smile.

If Winter Comes . . .

The message from Sorrento on my computer reads Ti aspettiamo! Un caro saluto. I know what prompted it—my own posting the previous day of an early snowfall in Santa Fe with its ubiquitous betrayal of my longstanding, well-known aversion to the approach of winter. I’d like not to disappoint those amici awaiting my return to Penisola Sorrentina and take the next flight out to distant shores of warmer climes.

It’s been this way most of my life. As a boy of the Great Depression, I contributed modest sums to the family income with after school and weekend jobs which often meant outdoor work on bitterly cold days: Assisting an uncle through long Saturdays at his stall in Baltimore’s Broadway Market; working for one of that city’s aggressive entrepreneurs who commandeered a cadre of boys selling pennants, buttons and pins at big-league football games or Christmas ornaments on darkened downtown streets (too many Thanksgvings freezing at the old Orioles’ Stadium or Christmas Eves under snow equating myself with urchins from the Dickens’ novels I devoured during warmer hours). Youthful imagination frequently countered limbs numbed by cold with visions of Faraway-Places-With-Strange-Sounding-Names, invariably romantic isles under the sun.

So much for childish dreams. If Roosevelt’s “this generation has a rendezvous with destiny” meant the South Pacific for many of my peers, it took me to Europe with one of its coldest winters on record. Both theaters of operation exceeded Sherman’s observation that War is Hell, but the oppressive jungle heats of the Pacific must have been like the freezing depths of Europe in tempering fear of the enemy with dread of the elements. I certainly a few times felt that sleeping on the frozen fields of a ravaged continent could mean never waking, welcoming oblivion of white-banked freedom from the obscenities of a world gone mad without end. And once, wandering alone under heavy snow, falling exhausted, embracing sleep, would have perished if a comrade hadn’t found me and carried me back to campground.

One finds ways—with luck— of compensating for what’s disliked, gaining what’s desired. And I’ve been lucky. Or blessed. Or clever, at maneuvering work, opportunities, chance, to get myself to places where sun bathes landscapes golden, sets seas shimmering, prompts the shedding of clothing. The US Southwest, of course; Mexico and Hawaii; but mostly the Mediterranean. Indelible images from countless hours over many stays within the Cradle of Western Civilization accompany all my days. No matter the undertaken task or demanding priority, an unexpected sound, word, sight can transport me to what lives in my soul—Roman walls burnished sienna at sunset, bright ochre columns of the temples at Paestum, glistening marbles of the Acropolis, sun-dappled reflections in pools at the Alhambra, dazzling dancing gurgles at Grotto Azzurro, blindingly white houses at mid-day on the isle of Crete. And, ever in my heart, the colorful seaside towns of Ligure di Riviera, Camogli, Santa Margherita, Rapallo, Lerici, Portovenere; and the enchantment of La Costiera Amalfitana, Meta, Piano, Sant’ Agnello, Sorrento, Amalfi.

One didn’t do badly, either, in establishing homebase at Santa Fe. Certainly the bright light justifies the acclaim documented by D. H. Lawrence during his New Mexico residence. The sun, winter as well as summer, outshines in clarity other regions of the US, gray days are few and there can be blessed respites of thaw during the coldest days of snow and ice in January or February. But now at four score and six, Santa Fe winters are not so easily borne or quickly over as I once considered them. October has me remembering words of so many poets who wrote wistfully of summer’s end and the long haul till spring. And if I once questioned Emil Ludwig’s contention (in his book The Mediterranean) that great cultures can only be spawned in warm sunny regions, I now court rationalization and concede that he knew what he was talking/writing about.

Ti aspettiamo! you post, amico caro. In response, let’s hope your awaiting me is not long while I listen to the song of the sirens, your peninsula’s anthem, Torna a surriento.

Response to a Granddaughter enamored of Italy

“An Italian woman came into the store today while I was working … then she answered her phone. "Salvo!" Chattering on and on, "Sono in un negozio, aspetta, ti chiamerò dopo, a dopo, si, va bene, ciao. Si, ciao." And my heart just broke. I had no idea how much I missed Italy until that moment. I wanted so badly to stop her, and say, "No so dove tu vai, ma devi rimanere qui perche ho bisogno di parlare italiano con te." I wanted to beg her to stay and talk to me, my mouth was forming the words silently, "Mi chiamo Gianna, sono Italiana." … only Grandpa Drew, I think, can fully comprehend how much my heart ached with longing for Italy this afternoon when I heard her speak. I'm still sad.”
Excerpt from posting by granddaughter Gianna

You are young, Gianna, with many years ahead for returns to Italia. I hope you’ll have the opportunities I had, to live there, not just visit, for extended periods; to study and work there, among the cittadini of that extraordinary peninsula. Yes, I fully comprehend how you heart ached with longing for Italy, but that was a mere pang triggered by your first brief stay, the few weeks you spent there this past summer. Once you’ve known more time with her, cara mia, every leave-taking won’t just inflict an ache—it’ll break your heart.

At my age, with the days dwindling down, I know that heartbreak on a daily basis. The thought that persistent physical setbacks and diminished energies could mean trans-Atlantic travel is a thing of the past, that I’ll never again look on paese dearly loved—italia ,italia mia!—is hard to bear. Never again, when every time I alighted on Italian soil was, despite love for and loyalty to my native USA, a homecoming: Sono qui, ho tornato a casa mia…sono Andrea ,mi chiamo Andrea, not Andrew, not Drew, more myself, truer to myself, here than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

You share my love of the language, Giannina mia, and I know you’ve already embraced Italy’s scenic and artistic treasures, her cuisine and rich cultural heritage. As I embrace them. But I’ve long acknowledged that these incomparable tesori are not what bind me so strongly to her. It’s her people, gli italiani, from whom I’ve learned whatever good I know of the human condition and how best to savor allotted years. Never one to romanticize Italy—my introduction to her was as a graduate student during the post World War II period, il tempo della miseria—I’ve known harsh times there and inevitably encountered a few individuals best forgotten. But, oh, the beloved friends and joyous, memorable times I’ve had among them. Or alone, exploring cities and hilltowns, wandering valleys and coastal plains, laboring in bronze foundries at Pietrasanta and Napoli. The dinners at family tables in villas where practically every word spoken, in many languages, was not trivial. Nights, following days of incomparable discovery and beauty, when I could not refrain from lifting my voice to the Mediterranean: Voglio restare qui.

Recently I’ve been remembering a gentleman encountered one Christmas day on the isle of Capri. At the time I was merely middle-aged, he an advanced senior, though likely not so old as I am now. The weather was a bit nippy when one was out of the bright sun, and the old man exited the gate of a handsome walled villa attired in a heavy ankle-length coat, bright scarf, and a hat topped by a clutch of colorful feathers. But though certainly decked out in style—that fare un bel figura I’ve known so long in Italy—his days as a jaunty giovanotto were long gone. His walk faltered, his cane tapping erratically along the cobbled narrow strada. We were both headed to the same site, a belvedere which I knew looked over the island’s famed vertical rocks rising from the sea, I Faraglioni. I stationed myself at the railing of the circular piazzetta, marveling at the spectacle of crashing waves against those fabled pylons jutting from the depths. The old man was seated on a bench, his face lifted to the sun. A slight smile was on his lips. I thought what a wonderful way for him to be spending Christmas afternoon—following the festive, and no doubt very lengthy, family dinner; with the senora if she were still alive, certainly with children and grandchildren, invited relatives and friends. Like so many family gatherings I’d attended in Italia. And now he’d opted for a respite from lusty domesticity, sought out solitude and meditation on a favorite bench commanding an exquisite panorama which he’d long known and loved.

That was years ago, and one might think that today, in this bludgeoning 21st century, even in Italy the elders can’t know such serenity. But the frequent communiqués and photos I receive from loved ones north and south, young and old, belie that. Their words and their images testify that they remain true to their environment and culture, its splendors sustaining a philosophy of life triumphant over whatever the times or personal destiny bring. Yes, granddaughter Gianna, distance from Italy, lontana d’italia mia, can break your heart. No matter. Torna, as often and whenever you can. And for as long as you can. Surrender to the song of the offshore sirens, Vieni, resta con mi.