One puzzle solved, others unresolved, but exploration always a pleasant and rewarding undertaking

This shows about half of the small cemetary at Ugliancaldo.

Thursday, March 14, 2013 (part 2)

Having finished our time in Gramolazzo, Carlo drives us west onto a high Alpi Apuane ridge to the little town of Ugliancaldo. Carlo had made an interesting discovery during one of his previous trips to the alta Garfagnana, and now I have the opportunity to see for myself. It is a small cemetery next to the church in Ugliancaldo full of gravestones with a familiar surname: Spadoni. This cemetery is less than 50 feet by 50 feet, and yet we find at least 20 Spadoni grave markers, some within the last 30 years and others 100 years old.

At least 20 grave markers had the surname Spadoni.

World War 2 memorial to those fallen in battle.

We wonder how long the Spadoni family has had roots in Ugliancaldo. Could these people have been descendants of the brother of one of our ancestors? It seems the circumstances here are very similar to those of the Spadoni family of the Valdinievole. In the case of our family tree, Francesco Spadoni moved to Stignano in the 1400s and his descendants now populate the towns around Stignano in a radius of about five miles. The tomb in Stignano and the nearby cemetery in Ponte Buggianese also are packed with Spadoni graves.

Ugliancaldo

After I snap a few photos, we take a stroll around the very silent town. I estimate by looking at the number of houses that during its peak years, the city housed upwards of 600 people. Carlo finds an old lady working in her yard and asks how many families live here now. Only four or five, she says, although during the summer many more families come back to their ancestral homes to escape the heat of the lowlands.

“Are there any Spadonis who live here?” Carlo asks. Yes, there is Oreste, who lives just down this street. We ring Oreste’s doorbell and Carlo introduces us. We are invited inside and Carlo explains how he and I are distantly related to each other and that he has traced our family through the church and civic archives back to the 1400s. I am very happy to have Carlo with me today. Usually I am so limited in what I can say, but now he does all the talking for me, and he says all the things I want to say if only I could.

Carlo, Paul and Oreste Spadoni

What is the story of the Spadoni family in Ugliancaldo, Carlo wants to know. Oreste knows the name of his grandfather, but that’s about it. When the Spadoni family first came here and where they came from he has no idea, nor does he know where such records would have been kept. However, would we like some homemade grappa, he asks? It seems unlikely we will ever find out how or if we are related, but that doesn’t stop us from having a nice chat about Ugliancaldo. Afterwards, his wife Giuseppina walks with us back to the church. She has the key and takes us inside for a little tour. We see more evidence of the family on the walls of the church, as Nello Spadoni helped oversee the construction of the cappella, and his name is inscribed in the wall.

Before we leave, Carlo asks directions to Bigliolo, because I have told him that I am in e-mail contact with a Robert Spadoni from California and a Sharon Spadoni Dines in Chicago whose ancestors come from Bigliolo. This little town is another half hour to the northwest, and I figure that at the least, I can get a photo of myself next to the sign for Bigliolo and e-mail it to Robert and Sharon.

Carlo, however, has outdone me. He had looked online and found the name of the only Spadoni of Bigliolo, Enrico, and by asking a few passersby for directions, we locate Enrico’s house and find him working on his olive trees with son Matteo in the hillsides above their house. He does have a large farm, as Robert had told me. We pass Enrico’s vineyards and a large barn full of cows between his house and olive grove. Soon we are in his house with his wife Paolita, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about our families.

Enrico confirms that Robert Spadoni and Robert’s brother Ken and their sisters are his cousins, and though he thinks he has relatives in Boston or Chicago, he doesn’t know who they are. Unfortunately, Enrico does not have much information about his ancestry. His father’s name was Giuseppe and his grandfather Enrico, born around 1880. He thinks his great grandfather may have been named Domenico. By looking at information Robert has sent, I determine that Giuseppe had a brother, Angelo, who went to California and had five children, one of whom is Robert.

Paul, Carlo, Matteo and Enrico Spadoni among the olive trees in Bigliolo.

Where does Sharon fit in? That is still to be determined. Sharon has told me that her great-grandfather is Giovanni Spadoni of Bigliolo, born around 1850, but that birthdate seems to put him a generation before the Enrico of 1880.  I believe Enrico’s father Domenico was the brother of Giovanni, but I will need to do some on-line research to see if I can verify this.

In any event, it is unlikely that we will ever be able to determine a link between the families of Bigliolo, Ugliancaldo and Stignano. One thing is becoming clear, though. All the Spadoni families of the Garfagnana and the Valdinievole that we have learned about were contadini, and they were at least wealthy enough to be property owners and not tenant farmers. When they had children, traditionally only the eldest son inherited the property. The other sons, though, did inherit something important—they learned the value of investing their sweat into the soil, of raising crops and farm animals, of preserving and preparing food, of saving for the future—and they learned to bring up their children with the same knowledge, values and work ethic. The younger sons sometimes moved to neighboring communities to take wives and buy their own farms. Over a period of 1,000 years or more, the Spadoni name spread up and down this region of Tuscany, and perhaps to other regions as well.

Of course it is also possible that more than one person in Tuscany earned the nickname Spadone, or Big Sword, and so there could be several unconnected groups of descendants. I prefer to think that we are related, but in the grand scheme of life, it is probably not important.

Carlo, just out of the photo on the left, talks to Paolita
and Enrico in the fire-warmed living room of their farm home.

What is nice about the whole affair is that this search has brought me to Enrico’s house to enjoy a conversation and bottle of wine, and earlier to Oreste’s house, and to this whole fantastic day getting to know Carlo and Franco. I have made connections with Robert in California and Sharon in Chicago. I am slowing learning Italian and have come to a greater appreciation of the importance of family and the sacrifices that parents make for their children. All of this is more important than filling in a blank spot on a family tree, but the genealogical pursuit has been a good vehicle to carry me here, and these are the things I reflect on during the two-hour drive back home.

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Note: Two days later, I spend four hours searching on the computer, and I finally find proof that Domenico and Giovanni were brothers, thus solving the mystery of how Robert and Sharon are related. This adds an extra element of satisfaction to this little adventure.

Close encounter with a Renaissance style artist and his fresco

Thursday, March 14, 2013 (part 1)

I hardly know the words to describe this fascinating day. Carlo Spadoni picks me up at 9 a.m., and in the next 12 hours, I will have more adventures than in my previous 10 days in Italy. He is accompanied by his good friend Franco Del Sarto, an accomplished artist who has created a fresco in a small church in Gramolazzo in alta Garfagnana, which is about a two-hour drive from San Salvatore.

Villa Mansi

Early in the trip, Carlo drives us past some of the sprawling and famous 16^th and 17^th century mansions near Camigliano where the rich families of Lucca used to live—and show off their wealth with elaborate gardens, fountains and ornate and imposing manors. We see the exterior of many of the most famous: Villa Mansi, Villa Torrigiani, Villa Reale, Villa Oliva, Villa Grabau and another few whose names I don’t remember.

Carlo and Franco carry on a steady conversation the entire trip, and I struggle to understand, mostly a losing battle. At times they slow down and ask me questions about myself, and then I am able to participate in a halting and ungrammatical way.

To reach Gramolazzo, we have to drive about two-thirds of the way up the scenic Garfagnana valley, a trip Lucy and I have taken twice before and enjoyed immensely. Today our route takes us through San Romano, the birthplace of Leona and Renata Donati, both of whom married into my family in the U.S. I know there are still Donatis who live in San Romano, but knowing we have a long day ahead, I don’t ask to stop. Maybe some time I will come back and take a walk around.

Il Battesimo di Gesu' nel Giordano, by Franco Del Sarto

Gramolazzo is not in the valley itself but up in the Alpi Apuane mountains west of Piazza Al Serchio. Snow is still visible in piles as we enter town and stop to get a church key. Then we make a call at a restaurant so Carlo can inform the proprietors we’ll be back soon for pranzo. The Chiesa di S. Bartolomeo e S. Rocco was built in 1959, without the ornamentation and frescos of the older churches. Carlo, who has an acquaintance in the town, noticed the plainness of the walls and hatched an idea to have Franco adorn them with frescoes. He presented the idea to pastor Don Gloria Giannetti, and the idea soon picked up steam.

Franco Del Sarto, self portrait

“One Sunday morning, sitting on a bench waiting for the pastor to start the celebration of Mass, while I was intent looking at the white walls of the nave, a strange idea began to flash in my mind,” he said.

“Being a native of Ponte Buggianese, where the master Pietro Annigoni has painted the interior of the Chiesa della Madonna del Buon Consiglio, aided my thinking: If only this church could be completely frescoed, what a wonder that would be. I immediately thought of my friend Franco Del Sarto, a painter of the school of Annigoni. The church of Gramolazzo could become his church.

“A day later I proposed this to Franco, and with his agreement I talked with Don Gloria. I committed myself to realizing the fresco in the hope that others would continue on this path so that one day upon entering the church you will find yourself in front of a wonderful show that delights the eye as well as helps you to grow in faith.”

When the church is opened and I see the fresco up close, I realize what a privilege it is to have the project explained to me by the artist himself, and I also come to appreciate his mastery. I have seen other modern paintings done in classical style, and often they have an amateurish look, but this looks like it could have come out of the Renaissance—the only difference being the colors are still bright and fresh rather than faded from centuries of weathering.

Franco Del Sarto with the famous Paul Spadoni. Oops, got
that a little twisted around.

I have read enough to know that painting in affresco technique is difficult because once the artist has applied the lime plaster to a section of the wall, he has to complete that section the same day—thus each section is called a giornata. To “build” a fresco, plaster is applied in several layers, starting with the rough arriccio layer and finishing with the intonaco coat. Franco tells me that unlike acrylic or oil, fresco painting cannot be covered over, thus making every stroke permanent. If the artist feels dissatisfied with some part, the plaster and paint either must be scraped off while still wet, or if dry, chipped off and the process started over again with the arriccio layer.

The fresco intentionally combines aspects of the Biblical story of the baptism of Jesus with other historical characters as well as symbols of the Garfagnana. Thus the river looks like a mountain stream that could be found locally instead of the River Jordan. The sheep grazing nearby are typical of the nearby hills. Watching from the lower corners are the patron saints of the church, accompanied by symbolism that represents their lives. Saint Bartolomeo is depicted under a fig tree, where he was found when first seen by Jesus. A knife is embedded in the earth in front of him because of the traditional medieval story that he was martyred by being skinned alive. Saint Rocco is shown as an impoverished pilgrim with a dog because he gave away all his possessions and once was saved from dying in the woods by a dog that brought him bread and healed his wounds by licking them.

Franco tells me the work took about a year to realize, with the first half taken for research, sketches and preparation of the wall, and another six months for the painting. I ask Franco who paid for the work, since the church is in a small and isolated community. I don’t completely grasp his answer because of my weak language skills, but it sounds as if some donations of money and labor were received, with Carlo being the most significant monetary donor and Franco doing the work for no fee. He also tells me that a figure on the right of the work bears the likeness of Carlo’s mother holding Simone, Carlo’s older son, and another figure on left of is Carlo’s late wife Sandra, holding their other son Francesco.

I am given a booklet and CD that describe the background of the project and includes a list of Franco’s awards and accomplishments, which takes up three full pages. Later I read online about the fame of Pietro Annigoni, one of Franco’s maestros. Besides creating frescoes and having exhibited work all over Italy, Annigoni painted portraits of Queen Elizabeth II, John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Pope John Paul XXIII, the Shah and Empress of Iran, Princess Margaret and numerous other famous figures.

Carlo Spadoni, Franco Del Sarto and Paul Spadoni pranzano a Gramolazzo.

Carlo locks up and we drive to the restaurant for lunch. I often find that the best meals in Italy are served in country restaurants that have no menus, and as usual, I am not disappointed. The minestrone is fantastic, and I sip slowly to savor every spoonful. I also have grilled chicken and ceci beans. We have a superb red house wine, and I can’t resist refilling my glass. I feel sorry for Carlo, who declines more than a sip knowing he has to maneuver the curving mountain roads. I never find out if the meal price is the usual country bargain because Carlo insists on paying.

Franco shows his sketch to Don Gloria Giannetti.

We make two more visits in town before heading farther into the Garfagnana on other business. First we stop at the home of Don Gloria, where Franco shows him some ideas for the next section of the wall, where Franco wants to paint The Last Supper. Don Gloria tries to feed us and give us wine, but we decline on the very valid excuse that we are full from lunch. Then we stop at the home of Roberto Davini, the director of the Bank of Gramolazzo, where the dolce is brought out and the wine bottle opened even during our polite attempts to refuse. Roberto has pledged financial support for Franco’s next fresco, and Franco wants him to see his sketches as well. By the end of the conversion, I have tried all three types of sweets and had two more small glasses of wine, so by now I have had about as much wine as I usually drink in a month. I do not realize there is more to come today.

From there, we are off another pursuit, to find more Spadonis—dead or alive. And that will be part 2 of today’s adventure, coming soon on your favorite blog.

Slow progress and steady rain

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Rain. And then some more rain. That’s pretty much all I have seen during my first 10 days here, and today is no different, except the rain has been harder today than usual. In some ways, this is a God-send, because I have trouble sitting still and staying focused, and I have a lot of writing to do. I am trying to record an account of the year I spent in Italy teaching at the EISP in Padova. I have about 20 pages done, but I write slowly, and then after I finish a paragraph or two, I have to pop up and pace around. I look out the window at the rain, wash the dishes, read a few pages of a book or check my e-mail or the news. Were it not raining, I’m sure I would take a bike ride or walk and waste further time.

Yesterday around 10 a.m., the rain stopped and I rode my bike to Ponte Buggianese, hoping to find more information about the interesting family of Paolo Antonio Spadoni. He was the father of Italo, for whom a plaque has been placed on the town hall, and also Gino Spadoni, who was charged with murder in Tacoma. Another son, Bruno, went to jail for supplying a gun which was used in a murder of two Fascists. A fourth son, Guido, emigrated to San Francisco. He became a metal craftsman and raised 10 children whose offspring surely are distant relatives of our Spadoni family of Washington. 

Just how we are related was the reason for my ride to Ponte Buggianese, but I was thwarted. Paolo Antonio was born in 1860 or 1861, so his stato di famiglia document must be at Buggiano, I am told, because Ponte Buggianese did not have a comune until 1883. But all of his children were born in Ponte Buggianese after 1883, I say, so wouldn’t his stato di famiglia have been transferred here? Not necessarily, the clerk said. I should go to Buggiano to find his exact date of birth and marriage. Then she can look for his stato di famiglia. It seems to me that she could at least try: I have his approximate year of birth, the name of his wife and the name of all four children and their dates of birth. Surely there should be some kind of index that could point her in the right direction, but she makes it clear that our conversation is over. I must go and find this information before she will help me further.

When I left the comune, it had started to sprinkle lightly. Buggiano is about three miles away, so this search will have to wait for another day. I stopped to buy a few groceries and made it home just before the rain returned in earnest.

Today the rain does not relent until after 1 p.m., but that’s when the comune at Buggiano closes, so I stay home and write—and pace, and read, and dawdle. Fortunately the rain doesn’t resume and I am able to stay dry during my half hour bike ride to Pescia, where I arrive at 4 p.m and continue looking into the family line of Narciso Spadoni. I look for the full two and half hours that the archives are open and find nothing new from the parish ledger of Borgo a Buggiano, which means that sometime prior to 1764, the family lived in a different parish. I check the parish records for nearby Buggiano and also come up empty, so I will perhaps try Ponte Buggianese next time.

Now it’s back home, with a stop at Bar Grazia to pick up one of their fabulous pizzas, a great way to top off the day.

A relative I am very proud of . . .

Monday, March 11
“That’s my son!” This cliche is used to illustrate parental pride in a child’s achievements, whether it be for athletic or academic success. It’s only natural for parents to be proud of their offspring and even to have a somewhat exaggerated view of their son’s—or daughter’s—prowess. I love all sports and still compete in church league softball as one of the oldest players in the league, so of course when I was a young parent, I hoped my kids would excel at sports so I could spend happy hours on the sidelines proudly watching them succeed.

I have always been only slightly above average in sports, but that didn’t mean that my children couldn’t be better than I was. Many strong athletes have come from parents who were not outstanding at sports, so I could always hope that might be the case with my children. But when your kids are only in elementary school, its hard to tell just how good they will be.

One opportunity to find out came during the annual field day at Artondale Elementary School, where my son Randy attended. I was an enlightened parent, and I was going to be supportive of Randy’s participation even if he finished last, though I knew that he was reasonably athletic and there was little chance of that. Running was never my forte, but might Randy have some hidden natural talent in running that he had never had a chance to show previously?

The kids lined up in the field for the long distance race, which took them off school grounds, through a nearby subdivision, back onto the school field and then around the school before finishing back on the field. Randy took off at a good pace, not so fast that he would wear himself out, and running smoothly and steadily. I watched him disappear through a trail in the woods with the other runners and awaited their return, hoping that he would be among the leaders in his age group. When he appeared in the middle of the pack, I cheered him as any dutiful dad would do, and he smiled and gave a little wave.

He looks fresh, I thought. He can’t win now, but maybe he’ll really put on a kick in the loop around the school and still come out among the leaders. Come on, Randy!

Then I moved over to watch the kids emerge from the other side of the school. No Randy. I watched some more. By now, the other kids who had been running with Randy when they started around the school had finished minutes ago. But still no Randy.

Finally, he emerged, still looking happy and fresh, but he was in the bottom quarter of the finishers by now. Still I greeted him with a hug and a smile. He gave it his best, he completed the course—I knew he was a wonderful son, even if he wasn’t going to be a star runner. But just how wonderful I wasn’t to find out until a few minutes later.

On the drive home, the competitive father in me couldn’t help probing just a little. “You seemed to be doing pretty well when you started around the school,” I told him, “but it took you a long time to get back to the field. Did you have to take a rest?”

“Oh,” said Randy, “a boy fell down on the side hill on the back side and he looked like he was really hurt. I had to stop and help him.”

Oh, indeed. “That was such a nice thing for you to do,” I said, while I thought about what I probably would have done when I was his age, which is run right past that boy, thinking that’s one more competitor I’ll beat. Heck, I probably would have done that when I was a lot older than his age. After all, the race was almost over, and I could always go back to check on the injured boy later. Anyhow, isn’t that what the race officials are for?

But Randy didn’t seem to think his stopping was a big deal, and I don’t think he was even planning to tell what he did. He didn’t feel the need to explain why he didn’t finish higher in the race, nor did he plan to claim any recognition for helping someone in need. He just did what he thought he should do.

My son went on to love sports and the joys of competition. He played on many teams, though he never won many individual awards. Like me, he is only a bit above average athletically. However, he did win a four-year university scholarship granted for Christian leadership. Today he continues to help others as a country program manager for the international aid organization World Vision.

I know that the father of the boy or girl who won the long distance race went home justifiably proud of his child. But every time I tell this story, I can’t help the tears that well up in my eyes. No father could prouder than I was that day—and I still am.

Tough call for parents to let teens travel on own in strange environment

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Writing about my first trip to Italy brought back memories of the dilemma Lucy and I faced when Sandy finished her Rotary Club exchange in Poland and asked us if she could remain in Europe for a good part of the summer to travel. Should we permit Sandy and her friend, Lindsay, proposed to explore Turkey and Greece, which would have meant transit through Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria, at the very least. Then they wanted to head west all the way to Spain and even take a jaunt across the Mediterranean Sea to Morocco.

As a result of our reluctance to endorse such a trip, Sandy had to settle for much less, though she did have a memorable trip that took her to Hungary and then across Croatia and Slovenia to Italy. Then she went through France to Great Britain, where she stayed for a while with Lucy’s brother.

But even approving this scaled-down agenda caused us plenty of doubt and anxiety. Certainly she was mature and sensible for a 17-year-old, and she had gained experience during her year abroad. But she had been under the supervision of Rotary Club members in Poland, and she and Lindsay would be without anyone nearby to call for help if they encountered problems. Lucy had been to England before to visit her brother, but other than that, neither Lucy nor I had traveled in Europe at the time, so we had no concrete personal experiences on which to base our judgment of the girls’ planned adventures.

And so, we compromised, not wanting Sandy to miss an experience of a lifetime but also worrying about her well-being. She and Lindsay traveled by train to Hungary, and after exploring Budapest, they continued on to Italy, where they spent a couple of days while staying in a hostel for women. At that point, Lindsay left to visit France, Spain and Portugal, and Sandy met up with me for our Italy exploration.

After traveling with her for two weeks, I could see that she knew what she was doing, plus I could see with my own eyes that European travel is at least as safe as travel in the U.S. I fact, the only time I remember a male showing the slightest aggression was when I wandered away from Sandy a little while we were waiting outside a train station—and it turned out that the young man I found her talking to was actually from Poland, so he and Sandy had a polite 20-minute conversation. This also gave me the chance to see Sandy putting her new language skills to good use.

When I left Sandy in Milan, I felt reassured that she would be fine rejoining Lindsay in Paris and continuing to travel. Her summer travels, though not as extensive as she would have preferred, ended well, and Lucy and I feel good about our compromise.

It recently occurred to me to ask Sandy, now a mother of three, what she will do when one of her own teenage children asks to strike out on his or her own for a summer. Here is her response:

“I think I’d say yes! It depends on how they turn out at 17, though. If they were unstable somehow—substance problem, bad judgment, eating disorder—then no, I wouldn’t let them. But otherwise, I think it was an amazing experience, and while I’m sure we would be nervous, we’d let them go. High school is a special time of life, when you can start to be independent, but your mind is still so open to new experiences. I think it is the best time for studying abroad, really.

“On the danger factor, just think of the trouble teenage girls can and do get into at home. While traveling, you are so busy absorbing the new experiences of place, culture and language. That was the funny thing, I guess, about your prohibition on Southern Europe. I can tell you that if I wanted to get into trouble, there was plenty available in all the other parts of Europe where I went. Also, being with Rotary meant that I was pretty well taken care of, so using a reputable exchange organization that has good host family placements is also important. 

“I was also lucky in having great exchange student friends to travel with, especially Lindsay Gillette. Who wouldn’t want their daughter traveling around with an uber-responsible, kind and fun friend who was admitted already to Northwestern University for pre-engineering? In Venice, I left my backpack on one of the water taxis at some point—which had my passport in it. Oops! That could have been so terrible. But luckily, Lindsay was an excellent travel buddy; in addition to being a friend, she was responsible and resourceful. She had another water taxi call the dispatch center and they rescued my backpack for me. 

“Being a high school exchange student exposed me to the wide world and its possibilities. I think without it I wouldn’t have gotten into Georgetown, and I wouldn’t have some of the self-confidence that I have today. 

“Thank you for swallowing your fears and letting me go. That was a great gift. I just hope I can give the same kinds of gifts to my kids someday!”