Moving to Italy: Packing Up

During our time in Italy I had changed. From longing vaguely for a better life, I evolved to planning for a successful one. Clean air suddenly didn’t seem as important as adequate medical care, and a peaceful environment wasn’t as attractive without people to talk to. For me, the hateful rhetoric we had fled in California had been replaced by mostly unintelligible sounds in Italy, and in the end, that wasn’t good enough. Better the ability to answer the screaming epithets, than to stand confused and mute. In Italy I learned that I needed to connect with others, to feel part of a community. I could not survive without people. In working to make a life at Gabi I realized I had a strong will and that, like my mother, I could experience many setbacks and yet still endure. This realization was part of the slow journey to maturity that had begun with my mother’s death. As I looked back on our time at Gabi, I saw clearly that we needed to stand alone as a family, to support ourselves, and to make our own decisions. We couldn’t do that in Italy where we were so dependent on my in-laws. 

Everything seemed to happen quickly. In January we talked to my sister, in February we had the flu, and in March we booked our flight. George and the children were U. S. citizens, but I still held a green card, and that meant I had to return to the United States within one year of leaving. Since we had left in mid-May, we arranged to fly back in late April (with a stop in Toronto to visit with my brother Michael). George’s parents would follow us later that summer.

In March, we pulled our trunks down from the attic, and I began to pack. In them I placed belongings from my old life, as well as from the new. My sewing machine went next to our new Italian movie projector; my mother’s family photographs nestled beneath our blankets along with the photos from Gabi; and I packed as many of the children’s new toys as I could fit. (I couldn’t ask them to give them all up again, as I had when we left California.) When the trunks were packed, trucked off to Genoa, and loaded onto a ship, we began the process of saying goodbye.

While Margaret Ann and Matthew didn’t understand what was happening, Paul and James were excited about going back. They would see their Auntie again, they would get regular peanut butter, and they could watch T.V. Their friends in preschool envied their journey to America, and the nuns used it as an opportunity for a geography lesson, but the boys were too young to understand the consequences of their departure from the farm. They knew some of what they were going to, but they didn’t realize what they would give up. 

 

They would no longer be able to run down to the vineyards, or to the orchard, or to pet the dogs. They couldn't drop in on a whim to visit their uncles. They wouldn’t be there to greet Simona when she arrived for her summer stay. They would not be around to ride in the newly-harvested hay, and Zio Silvio would have to drive across the courtyard in his tractor by himself. The uncles would drink the remaining wine in our barrels, but no one would crush freshly-picked grapes for those barrels that fall. We would say goodbye to Zio Remo, who would die the following year. And say goodbye to Zio Silvio, who would be fifteen years older next time we saw him.  

NOTE: The story of our time in Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.

Moving to Italy: The Decision

We decided to try, once more, to find a way to integrate into American society because it was where we felt most at ease. We had criticized the culture, but it had formed much of our outlook. England would always be “home” to me in the same way that our parents’ house is home, but I could never return there to live because I didn’t belong anymore. Canada was a brief but pleasant interval in my childhood, but I didn’t belong there either. More than anywhere else, George and I realized that we both belonged in the United States of America. 

A nation, just like a person, is shaped by the small decisions that nudge it ever forward. If we didn’t like the shape of our country, if we wanted to change the direction of those decisions, then we realized we had to take responsibility for helping to make them. We would speak up when saw something wrong, vote for representatives to make laws we could support, and contribute in some way to the people in our community—through our neighbors, our church, and our schools. A nation, like a family member, has faults. If we were to live in peace in the U.S. we knew we would have to forgive its transgressions and learn how to live with those faults. We might get angry at times, but we could not pretend any more to be above it all, to stand back and criticize and complain about conditions we found without doing anything. We would, instead, sigh our exasperated sighs, then analyze how to make things better.  

We had tried to create a new life in Italy and we did not succeed, but many good things came of our efforts. We had exposed our children to the customs of their ancestors, reconnected them to their relatives, and we had enabled them to forge a link with children of the community.  All of this would stay with them and help shape the way they viewed other countries and other people in the world. We had met Italians who were kind, who were generous, and who were just as hard-working and driven as people anywhere else. They were thriving in their own environment, but we just didn’t fit. Even though we took a chance on a new way of life and failed, I don’t regret for one moment the time we spent there. It opened my heart and my mind to another culture, it provided the clean air and the peace that we needed, and it was an essential component in my personal growth.

NOTE: The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.

Moving to Italy: The Bonds Weaken

The flu that winter shook us hard, and as we recovered we began to question seriously our decision to stay in Italy. Every question loosened our bonds to Gabi, and nudged us back toward California. 

After the phone call to my sister in January and the unsuccessful chicken-business interview, everything we tried seemed fruitless. When we recovered from the flu, George continued to look for work, but most of the jobs were translation or sales positions that might keep him out of the country for months at a time—not acceptable for us. We had not traveled all that way to have him disappear from our daily lives. Since George had lived most of his life in the States, he had a fluent, working knowledge of Italian, but not an educated one. One or two of the interviewers hinted that, although his English was excellent, his written Italian wasn’t good enough for a translation position anyway. This may have been one reason why he was never actually offered a translation job. 

More and more our thoughts turned to America. In addition to the convenience of living in a town or city close to medical care, we realized how many more options we had in California than in Italy.

Most importantly, with his university degree we were confident that George could find work far more easily in America. As for me, without Italian fluency, without a car, and without connections, there was no way I could get a job in Italy to help us survive. I knew I could find work in California doing something, anything, to help us earn money to put us back on our feet. And my mother-in-law could baby-sit. (I was still not facing reality completely. At Gabi, Rina had been reluctant to watch the children even for a quick afternoon outing. I don’t know why I thought she’d baby-sit all day so I could work.) 

The children’s education was very important to us. If we spent so much effort to find the right preschool, I knew we would be even more concerned about the rest of their schooling. High school in Italy would mean a long bus ride to Casale each day, and college may not have been possible if our Italian income remained at subsistence level--which seemed to be the most we could hope for. In California, both George and I had been able to attend college, even though our parents were not rich. The opportunities for our children were even more important to us than the opportunities for George. The equations seemed simple: Italy—no university education; California—a chance at one. As the weeks progressed and we continued to add to the list all the conveniences and opportunities of California, the idea of moving back became more and more seductive.

NOTE: The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.

 

Moving to Italy: Stranded--Part 4

Meanwhile, back on the road:

With much slipping and sliding and a fair share of Italian curse words from George, Zio Silvio drove them safely along the mountain track to Montaldo. Still worried about the sliding hillside that they would have to face on the way back, they rocketed down the paved road to the two-lane highway then headed towards Gaminella. The driving became more difficult once they neared the village as the swollen river had reached the road. As they splashed along, they saw many houses on the river side of the street with muddy water up to their front doors. After parking the little Fiat on a high spot, they sloshed to the pharmacy for my father-in-law's medicine and to the grocery store for food. Then they headed back the way they had come.  

The hillside track was still open and the rain had let up, but through the drifting fog they could see the hunk of grass and mud had slipped even closer to the road. They paused. Eyeing the dangerous mudslide, George wanted to turn back, but Zio Silvio was determined to brave the threat—and he was driving. He put his little Fiat in gear, forged through the muck, and gunned it past the threatening overhang. He continued fighting the fog and the puddles along the track until they got back to the gravel road of Bertola.

Pacing once more, I heard the putt-putt of the little Fiat coming down the hill. The children yelled “Papa! Papa!” as the car rounded the corner of the house and pulled into the courtyard. The men brought enough food and medicine to last for five more days, but I prayed that none of us would have a serious relapse, at least until the bridge was visible once more.  

The rain drizzled off and on all that day and half of the next. We couldn’t tell what was happening to the river because the world below stayed shrouded in the fog bank, but inside we were warm and dry and fed, and my in-laws were slowly recovering from the flu.

On the third day we heard the whine of the mailman's motorcycle as it crossed the fog-bound bridge and climbed the hill. We all cheered. We were reconnected to the world!  

I raced down the stairs and stood outside our front door while the mailman, still straddling his purring bike, pulled the damp letters from his pouch and held them out to me. As I took them from his hand the bands of tension around my heart released, and I felt a rush of relief.

But at that moment it hit me just how vulnerable we really were.  

NOTE:

The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.