Warning--long blog post! Just jump to the pictures if that works better. It was a great day discovering my ancestry in Laurenzana, a tiny town at the top of a big mountain.
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35 Blog Post, Tuesday, October 8, 2024 “Taking the long way home.”
The day started with a terrifying ride to Salerno from Minori. It takes a lot to rattle me, but this coastal road that our driver flew along made me incredibly nervous. I found myself saying silently, “Well, I haven’t heard of any accidents or deaths since I arrived in Minori….” as if that legitimized the craziness of the hairpin turns, the literal cliffs edges that marked the right side of the drive –MY side! Alistair claims that he wishes he could have had my seat. I don’t think so. At one point the driver turned around while he was driving and said to me “Are we all right back there?” I totally lied and said I was worried about the bike riders on the road, which I was. Who rides bikes on cliff edges that have to be shared with buses, cars and pedestrians? Crazy! But mostly it was my own life I was worried about.
We got to Salerno where we picked up our rental car from the middle of the city. Can someone please tell me why they try to sell you all kinds of additional insurance that you don’t need? I hate that part. Also, when the car arrived, it was double-parked and the police were behind it, telling us we had to get the heck out of there. It was a busy city scene and we were glad to get in the car and leave Salerno behind.
That meant we were heading to Laurenzana and then Matera. I’ll save Matera stories for tomorrow. Just know that I am writing this from inside a cave—a CAVE!! I’ll post one pic below.
Laurenzana, for those of you who are following, is the place where my father’s family is from. It became nearly mythical to me once I learned about it, as if it was a town populated by Garrramones and Pelletierri’s. My Great Grandmother’s name was Vita Pellessieri but everyone we met said “Ah! Pelletierri!” so maybe it was changed. (Editorial note: Alistair told me that he typed it in wrong on the family tree he created from the info. It is Pelletierri.)
Laurenzana is a small city in the south-central part of Italy. Talk about a long and winding road! Up from Salerno and deep into the mountains, Alistair drove for over 2 hours to get to Laurenzana, perched on top of a hill crowned by a ‘castelano’, or castle, and a huge church, La Chiesa du Madre (The Mother Church). The population is 1,770.
We drove into the town and stopped at a small public park where about 9 or 10 senior gentlemen were gathered on the park benches, sitting, talking, laughing, checking out what was going on in the center of town. I figured they were the right crowd to approach, so I hopped out of the car speaking no Italian and tried to communicate with the men. They all gathered around, and I used Google translate to tell them that I was looking for relatives of my Nonna and Nonno—grandmother and grandfather. The reality is that I was really only looking for my grandfather, Rocco, who had been born there in the late 1800’s. My grandmother was Austrian. I also had info about my Great-Nonno and Great Nonna—both of whom had been born in Laurenzana, named Pietro and Vita.
“Garramone! Pelletieri!” I could hear the men talking to each other rapid-fire and I tried to keep up, but it was no good. What I understood through sign language and exaggerated slow talking was that there were no more Garramone’s or Pelletieri’s in Laurenzana. Somehow I understood that I should go find someone at a building around the corner, so off we went, with big smiles and “Grazie!”s and “Ciao”s all around.
Down the street and around the corner was the Municipal Building where all the town records are kept. Donata, a receptionist of sorts, greeted us in the lobby and once again, none of us spoke each other’s language, but we managed, and she passed us off to Rosa, who is in charge of the town records. I sensed a great pride in Laurenzana in all of the people we spoke with. Luckily I had photos of the genealogy tree of my family, which everyone could read. Alistair’s daughter, Judith, had traced my family history several years ago, and she found census records for many members of my family. That allowed me to show Rosa the records I was looking for.
In the meantime, Donata took it upon herself to make us tiny cups of espresso, which we drank quickly, like good Italians do. I was incredibly touched by her kindness. We were total strangers and she was clearly trying hard to make us feel welcome.
Rosa, who was a little less welcoming, started looking through a series of books that looked remarkably like the Big Book we keep in church with handwritten records of baptisms and weddings. Success! In 1847, she found my great-grandfather’s baptismal record! I took pictures of it to translate later on, but I can clearly see his name handwritten in ink in 2 places: Pietro Antonio Garramone.
That was the extent of the records. I was determined to find out more about my grandfather, Pietro’s son Rocco, so I decided we would go to the local church to talk to the priest, if he was around. Churches often have records that towns or cities do not.
But before we left, Rosa motioned to us to follow her and said something about the ‘architects’. We went along and ended up at an office full of men who were clearly planning something and they were meeting and talking—the architects. Rosa walked right in there, and she grabbed some books and we walked back to the Municipal Desk. She gave me the three big books she had grabbed which are each about Laurenzana history—my family might be included somewhere in these books! She stamped them with the seal of the City of Laurenzana to authenticate them. They are in Italian, of course, but I now have incentive to start to work on some translation work.
It all felt unbelievable to me. I was home, sort of. I was in the home where my great grandparents had been born, grown up, gotten married and had my grandfather. It seems like the whole family had then moved to New York, which was mind-boggling to me. As Alistair and I stood at the top of the city near the Castle, we looked out over the open fields surrounding this small city, and we wondered how Vita and Pietro got to New York—probably by boat—and why they wanted to leave this town. New York must have been overwhelming at first, and they must have been so homesick and had trouble communicating. That’s why my grandfather’s name was changed from Rocco Carmello to Rocco Charles, I assume. It helped him become a part of this new place more quickly. Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, where they settled, was a haven for immigrants seeking community.
Alistair and I spend more time in Laurenzana, walking up to see the huge chiesa (church) which stood just below the Castle at the very top of the hill. I stood at the door of the church, built in 1222, and which was not open, imagining my great grandparents leaving the building and heading down into the town to celebrate their marriage.
We then went over to the Castle, built during the Norman era (1100-1200), an impressive fortress (but also closed) that had a 360 degree view of the mountain and the valleys. Alistair asked me how I was feeling about being there as we stood at the castle wall and looked over the city and the valley. I hadn’t really allowed myself to feel anything, actually. I was trying so hard not to be disappointed that I was just moving forward, asking questions, tracking down answers.
I stood there. This was my ancestral home, where my father’s family had been established hundreds of years ago, where they had married, and had their own children before emigrating to the US. For the first time, I started to cry and I said, “I think my father would be very proud of me for coming here.”
My father, Robert, or Bob, was a working class man. He had married my mother and they had 11 children, but only 7 survived. At some point, my dad moved his young family out of Brooklyn to upstate NY, in the country, on the shores of Lake Carmel, NY. He didn’t want his children growing up in the city. It was the greatest gift I was ever given to grow up on that lake and I remain grateful for my father’s decision.
My father seemed proud of his Italian heritage, but didn’t know much about it since his own father, Rocco Carmello, died when he wasn’t even a year old. My dad died many years ago in his 80’s but I bet he would have loved to visit this small town in Italy. I so wish I could have brought him here with me so he could see his own roots. In fact, I wish that my brothers and sisters could have been there too. I was texting them pictures and stories, but it isn’t the same. I was surprised at how emotional it made me feel to be there.
Rosa, from the Municipal Office, told us to have lunch at a local restaurant around the corner, but it didn’t look open. I got out of the car to check, and a young man yelled “Over here!” I think Rosa prepped him that we were coming. Marco, who introduced himself to us, ran the restaurant with his mother. No one was in the place other than two older men. I think we got the Italian eating schedule all wrong. But we were hungry. Marco’s mother, Angela, made all the pasta in the place, so we ordered the pasta. As usual, no one spoke English, so we did a mix of Google translate and exaggerated gestures to communicate. The Orecchiette arrived, chewy and perfectly shaped like the little ears the name stands for, with two side dishes of spicy chili oil and breadcrumbs with paprika to sprinkle on the pasta for extra flavor. It was excellent, and we thanked Marco, who was puzzled we were leaving: “Coffee? You get two free espresso! You eat, you drink coffee. You wake up, you drink coffee. Every Italian drinks coffee!” We assured him we were fine without it, and I began to tell Marco my story about my own family, showing him the family tree and he looked at me. “My best friend is Rocco Garramone!” he said to me, “I should call him?” Of course I said yes! Rocco answered the phone and told Marco there was no way we could be related. I thought there was really no way we were NOT related, but I said “Ok,” and left my business card in case Rocco or his family suddenly discovered a connection.
Alistair said it best. This sabbatical suddenly became personal today. We are blessed to be seeing the best of Italy in many ways, but nothing compares to the deep connection that family represents. Is this connection the reason I seem to love Italy so much? I don’t know, but I do know that I have been loving each place we visited (except for Florence—sorry!). But today was different. Today wasn’t a trip or a travel experience. Today was a family reunion, even if I didn’t meet any actual family members.
Is this what Heaven is going to be like? Heavy handed question, but what I mean is this—will we instinctively recognize that we belong, that we are comfortable and that our true family is all around, even if they don’t know it (I’m talking to you, Rocco Garramone!!!)? Hopefully we all will know where we are and who we are with on that day.
Now I am exhausted, emotionally, physically. Tomorrow I’ll write more about the cave we are staying in. We have a lot more exploring to do. But today was a day of pilgrimage, and I got to see the end of the story.
May you be blessed by exploration and discoveries of your own,
ML+
