Thistle and dry grass. Rough bony dry rocky soil. Steep hillsides with paths
and ridges where the cattle and sheep graze. They run level and slantwise up
and down the side of the hill. There are sheep droppings and cow flaps
scattered. Small pines blow and bend in the brisk north wind. I'm glad I have
my windbreaker jacket on.
I commune with Grandpa Leonardo - all alone with him on the top of the hill -
looking down to the village where he lived and where his father and fathers
fathers lived for four hundred before him. Red roofs and a jumble of walls
tight against each other. I try to remember where his house was in the
village - over there to the far right just this side of the church that towers
above all the other roofs....I hear churchbells ringing.
The road to the ancient farm where all my ancestors worked is out of sight
far down below me behind the trees and brush. Sheep graze down in the fields
on the hillsides leading to the village. Cows too. I hear roosters crowing.
The view into the valley is magnificent. Clouds blow by just skimming the
rooftops of the village. The high hills around me are barren and brown ready
for the next planting of winter wheat, but the fields below are still green
pastures.
I see glowing spots of sunlight down deep in the valley and watch as they
magically come up to illuminate the village....."
It's a moment I etched in my memory...and hope never to forget...
I wonder if any other piesani have made such sentimental journeys?
Thanks..
Dick Vara
