Saved by Siena, Intro

Can a story save someone’s life? If a person believes it’s important and has the will to get the words down, then maybe it can. My two hands worked a lot better before the story began, before I went to Italy, before I became an artisan. These days, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have carpel tunnel syndrome in both my hands; the result of gilding and restoring antiques for fifteen years. I learned the ancient, artisan craft in Siena and Florence while living in The Tuscany between 1995 and 1998. Yes, Under the Tuscan Sun, but without the professors income and old family money backing. Not to diss Frances Mayes, but moving to Italy and living there on a professors income albeit brave, isn’t quite the same thing as living there on a ten dollar a week budget and without papers. Yes, I was a W.O.P., but on the other side of the ocean.

Some days, like today, the only way to visualize a bright future is by looking back to the brightest memories of your past. I didn’t always fantasize about going to Italy, the way many people do. But it’s important to say that I did grow up with Italian American culture and family on my father’s side. Italian culture “american style” that was actually a lot different than the Italian culture I would come to know so intimately. Italian Americans will eat their meatballs with a mound of spaghetti while an Italian will eat meatballs or “polpetti di carne” as a main dish with sauce, but no pasta. I grew up from a young age loving the smell of a pot of espresso that my Nana would serve with a little lemon rind on the saucer. Despite my nostalgia for her way of doing things, I was surprised to never see this done in any part of Italy during my time there. My Italian relatives are quite religious practicing catholics, whereas my Italian catholic friends would confess to being “catolica, ma non fanatica” (catholic, but not fanatic). I grew up hearing a somewhat southern Italian lingo- “la rigot”- ricotta, “manigot”- manicotti, “finoiq”- finnocchio, or fennel bulb, and the infamous “mozzarel”- mozzarella. My father’s family is full blooded Italian, his mothers family being from Messina, Sicily, and his fathers from the town of Piacenza, not too far from Parma, the cheese and prosciutto mecca. My Nana, has reached 98 years of age, thanks to a life full of hard work, lots of olive oil and hot pepper at most meals, and her ever tenacious soul. Her husband Amerigo’s family was from the small town of Bettola, as I said, near Piacenza. He was the only one of three brothers not born in Italy. He became John, once here in the states. His brothers were Mario and Jack. While living abroad I visited my father’s family’s hometown of Bettola, and was greeted at the entrance to the town with a marble statue, where Uncle Mario’s name in fact was listed as a fallen war hero, “una caduta di guerra”. I went to the town to request paperwork for dual Italian citizenship, and can tell you it was one of the most emotionally rewarding days of my life. After visiting the town church and archival offices, I walked through the town, searching for my great grandfathers’ gravesite. After looking in the wrong town cemetery with no success, a local informed me that my family name Boiardi would also be found at the cemetery on the other side of town. I walked up a steep hill, anxious, but honestly expecting that I wouldn’t find the gravesite I was searching for. But Luigi Boiardi’s gravestone was there, with the same early black and white photo encased on the front of the grave stone, that I had been given from our family album. My past and present imploded one into the other as I stood peacefully taking in the gravesite on that sunny day. I knew it had been a while to say the least since anyone had visited my great-grandfather, or “bisnonno” there, and was so moved that I walked back into town and bought a large red geranium plant which I walked back to leave with him there......