The Fountain

The figure of my grandfather Emilio always comes to mind when I think of my childhood. I remember him as a skinny, distinguished old man, always wearing a suit and a hat. He didn't look like a farmer to me, although he had been one all his life. Emilio walked slowly with his stick, breathing heavily. A silent man: he would sit, read his newspaper, and stare out of the window for hours. His quiet and mysterious character fascinated me, and I would observe his moves and hang around him.

I grew up in the eastern part of the Emilia-Romagna region in northern Italy, in Cesenatico, a small port town of a few thousand inhabitants on the Adriatic coast. We lived in the countryside, a few kilometers from the sea, away from the urban center of town. The countryside had a life of its own and a different atmosphere. The area stretched as a flat strip of land between the Apennines and the sea. In the spring the different fields of cultivated land looked like irregular squares of a quilt, each one with its color and shape. In the middle of the fields stood farmhouses with a large porch in front of each and a stable nearby. The hay was collected and rolled up in enormous bales, scattered irregularly across the fields. The tallest building was the church; its bell tower could be seen on the horizon. One image comes to mind with great clarity: my grandfather and I walking down the streets holding empty bottles in our hands. It was autumn. We were walking slowly, in silence, headed for the little fountain a short distance from my house. It was our ritual; in the evening just before dark we would go and get fresh water for dinner. The fountain stood on the side of the road, right at the crossroads. We would often meet someone else there; sometimes they would be with their bicycles loading a ten-liter jug. My aunt and uncle supposedly met for the first time at this fountain. Exchanging sweet glances and filling their bottles, that's how their love story began.

My parents had begun a new life for themselves, away from the countryside and country life. They were running a hotel near the beach during the spring and summer months, and for the winter they had bought a house in the country. The old farmhouse where my grandfather lived almost all of his life and where my father grew up was sold, and my grandparents came to live with us. Emilio never fully accepted this new situation and remained uneasy with many aspects of modern life. My grandfather insisted the water at the fountain was different from the running water in the house: it was supposed to come directly from a spring up in the hills. He refused to have bottled water, arguing it was wasted money. The fountain was simply the way he had always gotten his water, and he was trying to hold on to a world that was fading away. Progress came too fast for him and wiped away the reality he knew. During the last years of his life he suffered from Alzheimer's and lost his grasp on reality. It was as if he were still living in his old farmhouse. He would get angry, screaming, "This is not my house!" Often he would make us change the position of the pictures on the walls and even the furniture, but he was never happy with the new display. One time he stepped outside and started walking with a steady pace and a resolute look in his eyes. I went after him asking, "Where are you going, Granddad?" and he very firmly responded, "Home!"

Selling the farmhouse marked the end of an era, of a way of life for my family. They had lived as farmers as long as they could remember, and now my father had broken the cycle, becoming a businessman in the tourist industry with the new economic boom. My aunts always told me my father, the only male and the oldest in a family of five children, was supposed to take over my grandfather's place and run the farm. He wrote a letter to my grandparents, informing them he had made his decision: he was not going to be a farmer. He never told his children about the incident. My father, too, is a silent man. My grandparents accepted, and even expected, this decision. They could feel things were changing; there was a different breeze in the air, and they knew my father was taking it all in.

My grandfather never talked about himself. For instance, he never told me about his World War I experience as a 17-year-old soldier and how, afterward, he refused to hold a gun or rifle again for the rest of his life, although it was common for farmers to own one. I know these stories from my aunts, not from him. Emilio would talk about his land and his work. I remember him telling me how there were no lights on the country roads, and after sunset it was completely dark, so dark that it would be difficult for us children even to imagine. They didn't have electricity in the house; they had oil lamps. In the winter evenings you could see light coming from the fireplace through almost every window, but late at night it was pitch-black unless the moon was out. My grandfather often described the way the fog enveloped the land; some nights it was so thick that the fields looked like a surreal landscape, "like a dream" he would say. One could only see two feet ahead and had to walk with a lamp very carefully. There was no heat, either. In the winter, just before bed, my grandmother would place under the blanket a wooden arched frame with a bucket of hot coals at the bottom; it helped warm the icy sheets.

It was a rural world in which everybody knew everybody. Each household had a nickname, often given because of an accident. For instance, there was the Ca'bruseda family, from the dialect burned house because of a fire that once occurred. Another family was Farina, flour in English, who acquired the name because children playing with flour had created such a big cloud visible from across the fields. The Mutin family simply had two members who were mute. My family was known by the name of my great grandfather, Iuly è dutor (Giulio the doctor). He was called the doctor because he was one of the few farmers who could read and write. He was considered knowledgeable about laws and business, and people would go to him for advice. To this day when I go home I still bring my old or torn shoes to the local cobbler, and he writes on the sole of the shoes Iuly to designate the owner. I still am from the house of Iuly in his mind. Now in his eighties, he is one of the local characters I have known all my life. He has fixed all my shoes and leather bags. His little studio behind the house smells heavily of leather, and outside there are cats walking around and tomatoes plants everywhere. After him there will be nobody to take his place.

This was a world without television. The first one arrived in the fifties and only at the local bar, so everybody would gather there and watch one of the two channels available. As a teenager my father always went to the bar with his friends: he loved American movies. My grandfather didn't see television until he was an adult. Life in the countryside didn't offer much in terms of entertainment. Families would sometimes gather in somebody's stable and tell stories. It was a time when storytellers really existed. With the arrival of the radio and later television, the custom died out. My father and aunts only remember it was a time of fun for them and one of the rare occasions when they could go out at night. They remember the storyteller was funny, well known in the community, and respected. Storytelling wasn't limited to these characters: families would tell each other stories. In fact it was common, particularly among the women, to visit in the evening after dark. They would call it fare la veglia meaning to do the wake; in Italian it doesn't necessarily have the negative connotation of mourning, it simply meant to stay up late after dark chatting while doing some kind of work such as knitting or cooking. My aunt still uses this expression when someone goes after dinner to have coffee or dessert.

My father instilled in me a great respect for this rustic world from which he came, even if he distanced himself from it. Later in his life, just before my grandfather died, he attempted to buy back the old farmhouse where he grew up, but unfortunately it wasn't possible. As he gets older I see him re-establish a connection with the countryside. I grew up with a clear understanding of how spoiled I was and how much easier my life was compared to what my father and his sisters had to go through. This was a tough world where nothing was taken for granted. Being farmers, they always had food on the table but in terms of everything else, they had to make do. Clothes were worn out and then passed on to your brother or sister. A bicycle was prized because very few could afford cars. Most families could not afford to send their kids to school after the elementary and middle levels, and my father was no exception. He went back to school when he was in his 30s, and he has always insisted on the importance of education to his children. He used to walk more than two kilometers to school every day.

I have an idyllic memory of my early childhood. Perhaps in part I constructed this image in my mind or perhaps these memories appear sweeter to me now. All I know is that I had the best of both worlds. I was a modern kid with all the modern toys and entertainment, and at the same time there was the countryside, my grandparents, and the little fountain. Sometimes I preferred the large fields of apple trees or grapes to the chaotic beach. In my teens I started to move away from the country, I was more attracted to the city and its noise. I was also looking for anonymity; I wanted to go where no one knew me and no one could talk about me. Now that I live in a city in a different country, I begin to reconsider.

Recently I came back from Italy. I walked the same streets and I passed by the same fountain. Many things have changed. The countryside is quickly becoming the periphery of the city, and there are few traces left of the world where my grandfather lived and my father grew up. I feel privileged to have seen a glimpse of it because soon it will be completely gone. New buildings are shaping the landscape, and the few farmhouses left are either abandoned or have been reconstructed and are now fancy villas. Where the local bar used to be are now apartment buildings, and at the crossroads is a cement rotary. All the small stores that used to be there when I was growing up are gone: the Rosina convenience store, run by Rosina and her son; Yader the butcher, who had the store on the first floor of his house; and the bizarre gas station/nursery run by the Angelini family. Many fields are overgrown, and the farmhouses often show a condemned sign. Several families have sold their property to construction sites and moved away. Those who have stayed work in the city; just a few still live as farmers. One family has adapted well to the changes, successfully selling their own cheese and meats to restaurants and hotels. Many elderly people keep a nice little garden with tomato plants and other vegetables, perhaps a comforting sight to them. No one goes to get water at the fountain anymore; it looks like a relic from a different time.

Perhaps my grandfather's uneasiness with change appears clearer to me now. I see him as a symbol for this distant world. There was a light in his eyes that wanted to reach out to me. During the time we spent together, he would often try to show me technical skills--for instance how to cut chestnuts in the center so they would roast well or how to clean string beans really fast. Little things, but to me they seem to say, "Do not forget." As I get older, my memories become more intense, and I regret I did not ask more questions, I did not pay more attention. Everyone inherits cultural and emotional baggage. When I first came to America, I wanted to distance myself from mine. I did not realize that without it I had no story to tell. Perhaps I feel closer to my grandfather and his world now, from across the ocean, than when I was a child. I feel a little lost sometimes when I go home and a little nostalgic about tales of dark streets and foggy fields.

Copyright © 2003 The President and Fellows of Harvard College.
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