...sat an overstuffed sofa of deep blue crushed velvet and silver studs where a small child such as I might sink beneath an ocean of tradition. There in the foray stood a table with white linen, candles and flowers, bowls of silver coins and candies, all set out before bisnonna's statues. Each time Stellina Marina and I would visit we'd find empty spaces among the statues, plucked from their place of honor and set in some corner, their face turned to the wall, standing on their head; punished for not answering bisnonna's prayers. From the sofa nonno would lift me up and carry me away into the scent of fresh baked bread. Around the table we'd sit, I on his lap my ear pressed against his beating heart, tremors from his constant laughter, all the while he and my father arguing over how many shots of wine a young boy might be allowed to drink, as I happily and gratefully would fall asleep to the rhythm of nonno's heartbeat. How I remember nonno best is him standing beneath his grape arbor, with a broad smile, pouring out a glass of wine as a libation of thanksgiving to the Gods.
He enthroned bisnonna Francesca in a high-backed chair atop a dais, and Stellina Marina and I would sit there at her feet as she told us the veglia, and thereby taught us the traditions of our family. We would go on long walks through fields and forests. With each plant she picked, she began a new story of magic and adventure, members of our family placed within her tale as characters, and each story wound around the plant so as to tell us how to use it. We would travel the same path each day, each time stopping at various shrines she had built, offering flowers, pouring wine over the stone, placing a bowl of fruit, giving back for whatever we would take. By the end of the day we would come to a special shrine. High hedges formed a simple maze of two concentric squares, each with openings on opposite sides, the outer walls opened east and west, the inner walls at north and south. Inside was a stone altar flanked by two fig trees. "Sabato, da mimico, Sabato, da mimico," over and over she called, slapping the earth in rhythm as we danced beneath the moon before the Bona Dea, Mafiti Mauissa.
When I was a small child we moved often, but wherever we lived my mother would erect a grotto to sanctissima Ferentina. Each day we would bring Her fresh cut flowers and bowls of milk and honey. In late fall we would open a hole in the earth and place offerings to Her children who lived below that they might feed on these through the winter and remain there to care once more for our garden through winter's long sleep. Inside a small niche in our kitchen, was a shrine to Tagesu where my mother kept all her special books. She cared to dress Him with fresh clothing and crown Him with wreathes of flowers. He wore a white robe beneath a child's face, and over this a cloak whose color changed with each season. My mother had many cloaks for Him, purple satin, blue velvet, green velveteen and white and red and bright yellow, all uniquely decorated with pearls, gold and silver. Other rooms each had their own shrine as well. In my room was a shrine to Mars, with whom I spoke daily. Wherever we lived, wherever we went, through forest or along city street, the Gods were all around, watching over us, guiding us, speaking with us, sharing our meals with us. This is how I recall my earliest years in company with our Gods and ancestors in bisnonna's house.
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