A Home in my History

by Mario Notaro (Australia)

Making a local connection Italy

“A man’s childhood is his home” Someone once told me that. It’s a vague memory, one of those ones you piece together in your mind. A swirl of events and people that seem to circulate like a fog until the only thing that emerges is an actual memory; a word, a passage, an image, maybe a person’s face. I spent some of my childhood here, when I was 5 and again when I was 10. Looking back through the fog there are so many little memories that I hold so dear. Being here now, that fog meets reality. My Nonna’s house where we would always have dinner. The wood fire oven that kept us so warm in the middle of winter as the snow builds up against the door mere meters away, the old chesterfield sofa upstairs I used to fall asleep on while watching Uomo Tigre. It feels like a home away from my own back in Australia, one I didn't know i had, until now. This is my parent’s birthplace. Their childhood lives here. It’s their home, far more than it is mine. My parents and I are here for the Feste di Septembre. An annual event that sees the return of so many people, many of whom emigrated to Australia like my parents did in the 60s. For the week leading up to the festival the town seemed so quiet. We are in a small village nestled in the mountain region that borders the Molise and Abruzzo provinces. A picturesque medieval town with an elusive history built into each wall and cobblestone. Modernity does not live here. Part of the ritual of the Festival is the procession of La Madonna della Salute. A religious statue that resides in the Sanctuary for most of the year, aside from the 3-day festival where it is collected from the Sanctuary and brought to the village center for the duration of the festival. The statue itself always gave me the creeps. I'm not entirely sure why, but I always felt her eyes watching me, following every time I was in her presence. She is draped in gold donations from the villagers, past and present, with hands outstretched and her face slightly tilted upward. A blank expression on a cherubic face that, if one could only draw one emotion from it, it was pure sadness. She is the symbol of healing and help. She represents the collective prayers of a community, frozen in a perpetual state of humility and implore. The procession to collect La Madonna starts in the town center. Suddenly, the piazza and streets are filled with people, young and old. The village swells with the footsteps of those that at some point in their lives called this place home, and clearly still do. We start our walk in a darkness that is soon to break into daylight. Almost everyone holds a candle against the darkness. The street lighting is poor and diminishes further as we make our way to the sanctuary. A snake of light makes its way through the dark stillness. Alone in my thoughts as we walk, I ponder what we are doing and more specifically, what am I doing. I'm not a religious person. But I think its more than religion that brings this group together. Faith is the conduit, but what illuminates our path in this darkness is history, loyalty, tradition, family and friendships. Things often forgot in the steel and glass cocoons that I'm more used to. “Di dove sei? Non ti reconosco” a woman asks me. Where are you from? I don’t recognize you. Everyone knows everyone around here, such is its small village nature. I do my best in broken Italian. “From Australia. I’ve come with my parents”. I point them out, a little further down the procession. “Ahhh yes. I know them. So, you’ve returned home.” She smiles to me. The light from the candle held beneath her face cast a light that gives away her wisdom and seniority. I return the smile and for a moment, I'm unsure what to say. With the safety of small talk taken away from me, I reply simply. “Yes. We have.”