Summers in Supino

Becoming Italian: A Memoir

By Maria Coletta McLean

ECW PRESS

Copyright © 2013 Maria Coletta McLean
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77041-137-1
CHAPTER 1

The news of my father’s death came flying over the ocean and sped down the autostrada until it reached the blue sign pointing to Supino, his village. Here it slowed, as it climbed the curves and hills, weaving through the beech trees that arched over the roadway leading to the ancient church of San Sebastiano. The melancholy news rang from the bell tower. It arrived in wicker baskets along with the winter vegetables, it unfolded from the January news, and was carried in patched pockets jingling among the coins to be exchanged at the market and the bakery and the tabacchi store. In the January dusk, the wind carried his name beyond the village and up the mountain path to Santa Serena, where the cows stopped momentarily to listen before they lowered their bony heads and continued grazing on the wild sage. High above the mountaintops, his name, Loreto, put down roots among the clouds.

* * *

Every activity had lost its appeal since my father’s death and I’d been hesitant about returning to our little house in Supino. We’d spent 10 sunny days there with my father last August. But since he had died in the winter of 1992, I was worried that our future visits to his village would remain in the shadow of sorrow.

When I explained my concerns to Bob, he said Supino was our village too, and we had a lifetime to make new memories there. “As soon as we drive up the main street, you’ll get excited to be back,” Bob said. “Supino’s always good for you.”

He called our neighbour, Joe, who lived across the street on via condotto vecchio. Joe and his wife, Angela, looked after our house when we weren’t there. I overheard Bob confirming our plans: “Sì, July. Sì, Sunday. Sì, afternoon. Sì, rental car.” At the end of the conversation, Bob’s voice grew uncertain even though he kept repeating, “Sì, sì,” and finally, “Arrivederci.”

He put down the phone. “It’s all set.”

“Everything’s okay?”

“Sure. In fact, Joe has a surprise for you. He said to tell you that he repainted the house.”

It took me a moment to realize that Joe meant our house. I thought about our next-door neighbour Peppe. He’d painted his house orange last summer. Said it was a warm colour.

“Did he mention the colour?”

“He talked mostly about his son, Marco — he got a job at a factory outside Supino on that road that runs parallel to the autostrada.”

“He didn’t say he painted it orange, did he?”

“No. The government divided half the jobs among workers from the South and half from the North. So a few Northerners are boarding at the pensione just outside of the village.”

“Do you think he repainted it white? Just to freshen it up?”

“He didn’t say. Let me finish. When Joe found out how much the workers were paying to stay at the pensione, he said that Angela could feed them better for half the price and … well … here’s the thing — the workers are boarding at our house.”

“At our house? Bob, for heaven’s sake. What did you say?”

“What could I say?”

Bob was right. Whatever he said, Joe would have said, “Don’t worry about it.” If there was one thing we’d learned about owning a little house in my father’s village of Supino, it was that it was always better to go along with the villagers and their traditions. Joe could speak English and he looked after our house when we weren’t there. “I keep an eye,” was how Joe explained it; that meant he kept the house and its contents and the tiny backyard the way he liked it