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Remembering Ceserano
Each trip to Tuscany is defined by a particular time in my life. But perhaps my last visit in 2013 is most memorable. As a child growing up in Chicago I remember my mother's family often returning to Ceserano, a small hilltop town in northwest Italy. Stories of this village were part of my daily life. This was the town of her parents and relatives, some who came to America to begin a new life; others who stayed behind. My mother (Dora) spoke often about Ceserano particularly in her last year as her health declined. She remembered as a child sitting on the stoop of her parent's home with her belongings waiting to leave for America. She could recall when shortly after she was married, during a visit to Ceserano, being ordered to immediately evacuate when World War II broke out. That time she left her belongings behind.
She loved to remember the little Church with the steeple that sat so proudly on the highest point of the village. She often reminded me of the Chalice that served communion at sunday Mass purchased in memory of my father who has passed away years before. He too loved Ceserano and its people. This was the Church loving rebuilt by the villagers after the earthquake of 1996. It was the Church I too had come to know and love.
And so it was inevitable that in 1969 at the age of nineteen I, along with my sisters and cousins would embark on a trip to Europe. We were armed with our Euro-rail pass, backpacks stuffed with our belongings, and our trusty guidebook Arthur Frommer's Europe on $5 a Day. Ceserano would become base camp. A place to return to on weekends tired, dirty and hungry. And each time the village of Ceserano would greet us with warmth and generosity. After all we were Dora's children and nieces.
But it is sunday Mass in the tiny church followed by family dinner that I remember so well about those weekends. As I trekked up that steep hill to attend Mass I could hear so many sounds: the clatter of dishes preparing for sunday's dinner; scoldings from Mamas and Nonas urging children to hurry as not to be late, followed by children's laughter. And I can remember the aroma of rosemary grown on the biggest bushes I have ever seen that laced the road to the top of the hill. Mass would take on a whole new meaning as the entire village gathered to worship in what was to me the most peaceful place on earth. This was sunday in Ceserano.
Over the years I returned to Ceserano. I saw Ceserano through the eyes of my husband and young children; through my college bound children who accompanied their Nona celebrating her 90th birthday in her village and now through my boyfriend. Snuggled in the Providence of Massa Carrara I often reminded them that the surrounding white-capped mountains were not snow, but boasted some of the most beautiful marble in the world: Carrara marble and each time I trekked to the top of the hill to visit the little Church.This cool dark place with its flickering candles and its quiet became a respite from not only the summer heat but the everyday challenges of life.
In October, 2012, my mother at the age of 99 passed away. Shortly before we spoke of my next trip. She shared how she would like to come with me but knew it would be impossible. She wanted to visit her family. She wanted to go to the little Church. She remembered the Chalice purchased in memory of my father. Indeed her memory was clear and detailed. I assured her I would return again soon.
And so, summer of 2013 I returned to Tuscany. I stayed in a villa not too far from Ceserano. And all the while I felt a tug, a need to return. I knew I had to visit this village. I had to walk the road, and sit on the stoop where my mother sat waiting to leave for America. I had to visit relatives and share stories and memories of my mother. I needed to trek up the hill to the little Church she loved. I came for my mother.
And so I arrived that hot July day with family waiting. The little Church was closed since recent tremors had threatened. But I walked the road I had walked so many times. I sat on the stoop in front of my mother's home where she sat so many years before. A sense of peace engulfed me. I felt my mother's presence as if she too had come to visit. I had come to say goodbye for her and I was met with the same warmth and love as I had so many times. After all, I was Dora's daughter.
