40 years after a harrowing aerial crash, my friend the pilot and the lady who administered aid find some closure

All of my hobbies, skills and interests combined dramatically recently to produce a fascinating and satisfying result. They thrust me smack in the middle of a compelling story about true heroes from both America and Italy.

The saga began on February 8, 1985, with Air Force Lieutenant Tim Brown flying what was supposed to be a routine mission from Torrejon, Spain, to the NATO base in Aviano, Italy, in an F16 Fighting Falcon. When a malfunctioning heater caused a flap to freeze, the fighter went into a stall before plummeting to the earth in the foothills of the rugged Dolomite mountains near the village of Limana. Providentially, Brown managed to eject in time, and he parachuted to the ground, dripping blood from a gash on his face incurred during the violent ejection. Brown’s jet crashed into a field, and pieces of it littered a broad area.

Remains of the F16 fighter in the snowy field in Northern Italy.

Brown hiked down the hills, where he picked up some footprints in the snow and followed them to the farmhouse of Ermelinda Dal Farra. She spoke no English, and Brown no Italian, but she took him in, tended to his wounds and alerted the Italian state police, the Carabinieri, along with the fire department, the Vigili del Fuoco. Within a half hour, an ambulance came and transported Brown to the hospital in Belluno, but their brief time together in Dal Farra’s home left a lasting impression on both Tim and Ermelinda.

In the days after his hospital treatment, Brown returned to the scene of the accident with other Air Force officers to review the accident. Tim had brought flowers with him to give to Ermelinda, but she wasn’t home, so he wrote her a nice thank you note and left the flowers.

Tim and I attend the same church in Gig Harbor, and I’ve listened to his fascinating story a couple of times. Each time after ending the tale, Tim expressed regret that he was not able to thank Ermelinda in person. Before Tim’s father passed away, he had encouraged Tim to go back and find the lady who had helped him. Since I speak some Italian and am somewhat familiar with the Veneto region, we even discussed the possibility of me accompanying Tim to revisit the crash scene and visit Ermelinda.

I expressed willingness to do this, but several obstacles stood in the way, the first being that Tim did not know Ermelinda’s name, and he wasn’t even sure of the nearest city. He knew he had been hospitalized in Belluno, though, but would he be able to find the farmhouse again? And then there would be the cost of travel and the logistics. One doesn’t just hop in the car and drive from Gig Harbor to Belluno. It would take considerable planning and coordination.

So, first things first, I told Tim I’d see if I could find the name of the woman who had first given him aid. Tim seemed to doubt that I’d be able to do this—which probably served as a challenge to my investigative reporting skills. I started by doing a search for news of the crash, and I found a few articles online. The crash had happened near the small city of Limana. I looked at the map to see where Limana was, and then I searched for all the newspapers in the region. I sent an email to each newspaper, and within a few days, I received a helpful reply.

Lauredana Marsiglia of Il Gazzettino di Belluno told me she had written an article printed on the front page of her newspaper: “Crashed F16 in 1985: he seeks the woman who helped him.” Marsiglia also said she was asking for information from the Air Club in Belluno. Within two days, not only had Marsiglia found the woman but she had interviewed her and taken a photo of both Ermelinda and her husband (who had not been present on the day of the crash). It turns out that she still had Tim’s thank you note, mounted and hanging on her wall.

Tim’s reacted with surprise and gratitude, emailing me: “Paul, I simply can’t thank you enough for all your work (and to think this all happened in some four days after talking with you in church last Sunday—truly amazing!) I’m grateful to know she’s alive; to have her name and to see the photo of her.  Though I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her at all, that’s my name at the bottom of the note she has, and I know I wrote her. Jem and I need to plan a trip to Italy to meet her and her husband. Thanks again, Paul, I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

However, the reporter wanted much more. She wanted to be able to make a video of a conversation between Tim and Ermelinda, and that went far beyond what Tim had in mind. He consulted with his old Air Force colleagues and the public affairs officer for the Air Force, and they all discouraged him from doing any kind of public interview. Reluctantly, I told Marsiglia that Tim had only wanted to someday meet privately with Ermelinda, but he wanted no further publicity.

Ermelinda Del Farra still has Tim's note, which she has mounted and keeps hanging on her wall.

However, in the meantime I had also been able to locate Ermelinda on Facebook and establish contact with her. I explained to her that Tim would always remember and be thankful for her kindness, but he was uncomfortable with how public the situation had become. She wrote back: “Good evening Mr. Paul. I was very pleased to hear that our American pilot looked for me. My whole family has always had him in their hearts for that miraculous event. We are always ready to welcome him when he wants. I will introduce you to my children, who also remember him. Now they are grown up, and I am a grandmother of three beautiful grandchildren. I would be very happy to spend time together. He is always welcome.”

And that’s the end of the story, or so I thought. But 2025 marked the 40th anniversary of the incident, and the people of Limana have not forgotten it. Journalist Giovanni Carraro contacted me in December to let me know there would be a special program at city hall on February 8 to memorialize the event. Present would be eye-witnesses and some of the first people to arrive on the crash scene, as well as Ermelinda Dal Farra. A documentary movie with interviews and details would also be shown.

I shared this information with Tim, and after some initial hesitation, he agreed to write a letter to thank Ermelinda and all the people of the community who had assisted him. He also sent a photo of himself and his wife Jem. The letter was translated into Italian and displayed and read at the special event.

This is likely the end of this story, as I believe these events have satisfied the need for both Tim and Ermelinda to find closure (although I would still be happy to accompany Tim if he does want to return to the scene). I received these notes afterwards from the main characters:

Tim: “Thanks so much for sending me the link (to the documentary video). I listened to the whole thing and was able to get a general sense of where the video was going, thanks to your summary. From a personal standpoint and though maybe not perfect, I do have a sense of closure on this event as I can truly say I fulfilled an aspect of my father’s encouragement to me years ago to thank Ermelinda. That wouldn’t have been possible without your help.”

Ermelinda: “Thank you for informing our dear pilot Tim Brown about the anniversary. Forty years have passed, and my family and I have never forgotten that famous evening. Tim, your letter was very emotional both for my family and all the participants. I would have liked to meet you, I hope that one day in private and alone with our families we can meet. It would make us very happy. Thank you, too, Paul Spadoni, for having been the spokesperson.”

Here is a link to the documentary of the crash shown by the journalist Giovanni Carraro February 8, 2025: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iozFe8YTmKI

 

 

 

A message to my grandchildren . . .

What is it like to be a parent and a grandparent? What is the one thing that is most important to a person of my age? I’ll try to explain this by starting with a story about a man name Michele Spadoni and his wife Anita Seghieri, my grandparents—your great great grandparents.

Michele Spadoni, surrounded by his seven children.

Michele was born in 1876 in Pescia, Italy. Michele’s family owned no property. His parents had no home of their own. They farmed other people’s property and had to pay rent in a house that had no indoor plumbing, an outdoor bathroom, no electricity, and was heated only by a fireplace. For their work on the farm, they were able to keep only 50% of the profits. The owner of the land kept the other 50%, even though he didn’t work. It was an unfair system, but for people who didn’t own their own land, it was almost the only option. Kids had to work in the fields with their parents. If they were lucky, they could go to grade school and learn to read, but most of them dropped out of school to help their families survive. One day when Michele was 11, he and his family were working in the fields in San Salvatore, just below Montecarlo. His 7-year-old sister Zelinda was home with their 90-year-old bed-ridden grandmother, and the fire in the fireplace caught the rest of the room on fire. The grandmother was too old to help Zelinda, who was trapped in the burning room. Zelinda was the fourth of Michele’s siblings to die young. Two other sisters and a brother died from illnesses that we would be able to cure today with modern medicine.

Anita Seghieri 

When he was in his 20s, Michele wanted to marry and raise a family of his own. He met and fell in love with an amazing young lady, my grandmother Anita Seghieri, who lived nearby. But he couldn’t marry her, for he had no money, no home, no education, no real occupation except farming. The economy in Italy was among the worst in all of Europe.

But Michele had a few things in his favor. His parents had taught him the value of working hard, and he was willing to do any job. Even though he didn’t have a strong education, he was very smart. And most of all, he was willing to experience new things. He was not afraid of adventure. Michele was 26 years old in 1903, and he had to find some way to make something of his life, some way to earn a living, some way to marry and raise a family. What do you think he did then?

He took a train to a seaport, Genoa, and then boarded a ship to America. The journey took about two weeks, and when he arrived, he had only $9. He spoke absolutely no English. The ship’s log listed his occupation as peasant, but then someone crossed out the word peasant and changed it to laborer. He found work in a steel mill, then as a cook, and then in a brick factory near Eatonville, Washington (see Clay City blog). After five years, he had earned enough money to go back to Italy and marry Anita. Unfortunately, during the five years he worked in America, both his dad and mom died. After the marriage, Michele and Anita went back to America, where he worked in the brick factory for another five years. This time the ship’s log listed his occupation not as peasant or laborer but as operating engineer.

He and Anita lived in a little cabin next to the brick factory. Anita gave birth to two daughters, Nelda and Clara, and was pregnant with a third child. Michele and Anita planned to return to Italy and raise their family there. Anita went back to Italy first with her two daughters (ages 1 and 2), and while there she gave birth to a third daughter, Lola. But she saw that life in San Salvatore had not improved. She was happy to be with her parents, brothers and sisters and cousins again. It was comforting to be able to speak the language and understand the customs of the people around her. But she realized that there would still be no work for her husband, and no future for her children, so she sent a message to Michele: “Italy is where you and I feel most at home, but there is no future for our children here. Stay where you are. I’m coming back to America. It will be our home now.”

1914 was an eventful year for Michele and Anita. They had their fourth child, their first son, whom they named Giulio, but to make his name sound more American, they called him Julius. They also moved to a rented home at the head of the bay in Gig Harbor, Washington, and Michele started work at a metal refining company in Tacoma. He took a ferry to work, since there were few roads and no bridge connecting Gig Harbor to Tacoma. Sometimes he would stay in Tacoma for the entire work week and only come home on weekends. They bought property in Shore Acres, on the south end of Gig Harbor, and built their first house. They had three more boys, Roy (1915), Claude (1918) and Rudolph (1921).

Michele on his farm during
his latter years.

At the end of World War 2, the three of the boys, now young men, started their own business clearing land, making roads and delivering coal and fuel oil. The fourth brother joined the business in later years. Almost all their sons and their nephews worked for the company, which was called Spadoni Brothers. Julius was the eldest brother and the head of the company, but these brothers loved each other and made most decisions by consensus. Like their father Michele, they were honest, hardworking and intelligent, and their business was a huge success.

Julius was my father, and he was one of the most amazing men I’ve ever known. Before he started Spadoni Brothers, he worked as a logger and then a welder. He built his own house. He could repair his own cars. He had a strong faith in God, and he took his children to church every Sunday. He was a fine example of what a man should be.  I never once saw him get angry or raise his voice (although he told me that he sometimes did get angry when he was younger). He and his brothers and sisters helped many people in need. One time I stopped to help some people pull their car out of a ditch. I hadn’t told them my name, but afterwards they said, “You must be a Spadoni.” I don’t know how they knew that, but I like to think it was because that’s what all the members of the Spadoni family in Gig Harbor did—they helped people in need without asking for anything in return.

My mom taught kindergarten in our home so that she could be at home with her children and still contribute to the family income. Later, when all her children were in school, she took a job as a first-grade teacher. She inspired in me a love for reading, and I give her credit for teaching me to be a writer.

I don’t really know if my parents and grandparents look down from heaven to see how I’m doing today. Maybe they do, or maybe they’re too busy with whatever work God has given them to do in heaven, but it is my strong hope that they are proud of me. I want them to know that I appreciate all the sacrifices they made so that I could have a good education, a good job, a home of my own and a happy family. I also appreciate that they taught me to love God, they taught me kindness, honesty, the value of hard work, and the importance of getting a good education.

I think they would be terribly disappointed if I turned out to be lazy, or dishonest, or selfish, or cruel. Or if I took all the education they provided for me and wasted it by living foolishly. Or if I sold all the property I inherited and wasted the money on fleeting pleasures.

I wish my parents and grandparents had lived long enough to see what a successful career I had as a teacher, to see the awards we won for the newspaper, yearbook and literary arts magazine, to see that I wrote two books, to see that I was named journalism teacher of the year and career and technical education teacher of the year in the state of Washington.

And even more than that, to see that I’ve had a long, loving and successful marriage to an amazing woman, and to see the four amazing children that my wife and I brought up. My parents and grandparents centered all their efforts on their families, and it paid off. I believe they would look back on all the sacrifices they made and say it was all worthwhile.

And now I’m no longer the child but instead the grandfather, and the greatest reward for me is to glory in the successes of my children and grandchildren. I too made a lot of sacrifices, working at multiple jobs throughout my life, many of them at the same time. I’ve been a laborer, a dishwasher, a truck driver, a logger, a photographer, a graphic designer, a journalist, an author, a landlord and a business owner. By working so hard during my younger years, I’m now able to enjoy leisure time with my family. Nothing gives me greater pleasure or satisfaction than seeing that my children and grandchildren are happy and are forming habits that will make them experience the same successes that I’ve enjoyed. My children are already there—they are well established in successful and fulfilling careers. They are honest, hard-working, kind and loving. As for my grandchildren, it’s too early to know what kind of lives they will lead. Will they also grow up to be honest, hard-working, kind and loving? I fervently pray that they will. Nothing could make me happier than to see them become like their own wonderful parents.

I hope that my grandchildren, as they grow into adulthood, will also want to make their parents and grandparents proud. I hope they will be grateful for the loving way they are being raised by their parents, and that they will repay this devotion by embracing the values of their parents.

To my kids and grandkids, I say that you never, ever need to give me a gift for Christmas, my birthday or Father’s Day. That’s because the most priceless gift you can give me is to live a life that will make me proud. If you do that, it will assure me that my own life, and the lives of my parents and grandparents, have been worthwhile.