PREFACE

     I am starting this book on Dec. 31, 2009, around 5 PM, in a suburb of a North American city. The New Year is fast approaching. Soon some family members will come to have dinner with my family. Before the evening begins, I would like to start something that is near to my heart: a book about a coin, the search to find its origins and the thrilling discoveries that followed.

     I have asked myself why I would want to write and publish such a work and I have concluded that there are three fundamental reasons.

     First of all, I want my children to know, in detail, and in greater depth a story that I shared with them several times, but never did in a complete and orderly way. It would also be a wonderful opportunity to teach them about their ancestors on their father’s side.

     I also want to help the great many who share the same genetic and historic roots to get to know their enthralling ancient past and who are presently part of our Diaspora around the world.

     Lastly, I would like this book to become a source of inspiration for all who crave to know more about their ancient roots. As I will show in this book, patience, determination and a systematic approach can lead to uncovering wonderful nuggets about one's ancestors; nuggets that now more than ever can be uncovered with the help of rich libraries and the Internet.

     I hope my labour will prove to be enlightening to my children, my relatives and all of those with whom I am genetically related. Equally, I hope that all who will read this book will be stirred to dig through the various historical layers that are waiting to amaze the determined digger.

INTRODUCTION

     Many years have gone by, since the events you will read about in this book took place in a far away location.  I lived in that location as a child until age 14, when I left for another land. Since then I have been welcomed by another people that treated me like a son. I have been cared for and have been given many wonderful opportunities.

     Life has been good to me in Canada. I have a wonderful teaching and counseling profession; I am financially comfortable and I have been able to raise a special family.  But, often, my thoughts fly back to a little town in a country far away where some of my happiest years were spent and where I had some of my most unforgettable moments.

     One experience hangs in the most central part of my mind. It started on a hot summer day and it gave rise to a chapter in my life that keeps on being written to this day.

ONE BORING DAY IN CAPISTRANO

     The story begins in 1963, or 1964. I was either ten or eleven. It was another very hot and uneventful summer day in the town of Capistrano, in the last southern region of Italy, named Calabria. I had made my usual morning tour of the piazza nearby; I had strolled north and south on the main road, the Via Nazionale. I stood on the edge of the Via by the waist-high stone wall that kept us kids from falling down into a steep ravine below. I looked down the long, meandering valley and then raised my eyes toward the Rocca Angitola Mountain and the distant blue Mediterranean, as I had done a thousand times before. I paused to inspect the digging in the ravine below. The eager workers were clearing the area for the high pillars that would have held up the Mayor’s house, and that would have brought it to road level.

     It was just another boring day, with little to do but wait until, as usual, one of us kids would have thought of something to do, to add some fun to the monotony of another summer’s day.

     Then the boredom suddenly ended…

“LOOK AT WHAT I FOUND!”

     I remember being in front of my house, near four corners, when one of my young friends approached me, all excited. Was it Raffaele, or Modesto or maybe Mimmo? I don’t recall. I do recall, though, that one of them came to announce a dramatic, life-changing event. He had found some old-looking coins in the ravine where the Mayor’s house was to be built.

     My friend looked elated, as he recounted the visit down the steep ravine and  his amazing find. Filled with childhood curiosity, he had gone to simply look around and, upon glancing at the moist, dark dirt, he saw something he had never seen before: an old-looking coin. He stooped down, looked attentively and then collected it with excitement; but there were more – several more.  He continued looking and finding for quite some time. When there were no more to be found, he ran hastily to share the stunning news with his closest friends -- and I was one of his lucky friends.

     It was not a kids’ trick meant to break the day’s monotony; the evidence was there, in his trembling hands. Sure they were dirty and very old looking, but they were real and they looked like nothing we had ever seen before. A close scrutiny revealed that they were old, Italian coins. The heads on the coins were those of past Italian kings. The names were visible and so were the dates. The newest ones, showing the last King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel III, were just a few decades old; the oldest ones showing Victor Emmanuel II went back about one hundred years.

     I stared at the coins mesmerized. I had never seen such amazing, old coins before. To my delight, my friend let go of them one by one, to let me touch them, to read the names and the dates as evidence that he, indeed, was the proud possessor of an amazing treasure.

     Within minutes, the group grew and so did the excitement. We all agreed that the ravine must have had more coins waiting to be found and, as we had done so many times before, we went on to tackle our newest adventure.

     The ravine was nearby. The fastest way to get to the bottom was the stone and concrete staircase beside my house. We ran quickly down the steps and reached the promising area within seconds, ready to search and find more coins.

    All of us looked around with eager eyes and soon found what we were looking for. In spite of all the coins already found by our friend, the dirt offered us many more.

     We searched for a long time and, to our delight, we found many more. Each time our eyes landed on another coin, we proudly yelled, "I found another one," for all to hear. Soon our pockets were full and our young hearts were filled with joy.

     Then the coins became rare and, when it became clear that could not find any more, we left satisfied. We then walked to the nearby fountain to wash the bounty thoroughly and to check the dates.

     By late afternoon the unavoidable competition began. Who had found the most coins? Who had the oldest coin? Unfortunately, as I vaguely recall, that honor was not mine, though I did have in my possession several old coins.

     We went back the next day and maybe the day after. A few more coins were found but, in time, the coins dried up and, since digging was too time consuming for our impatient group, the search came to an end --- except for me.

     You see, I was the lucky one; I lived right next to the ravine. In fact my bedroom faced the very spot where the coins had been found – and I was very persistent.

PERSEVERANCE PAID OFF

     My ten-year old logic told me that more coins were waiting to be found. So I conceived a system that was quite ingenious for a ten year old. I would dig a hole around half a foot deep. I would then create a small vertical wall on one side of the hole and I would slowly scrape the dirt off the wall with a twig. It would have taken time and much patience – but I was in for the challenge.

     Being totally alone, I could focus on each grain of dirt and each pebble. I treated the miniature wall with the respect one owes to any fragile object and dug slowly and gently.

     The dark, moist dirt scraped off easily. I inspected closely anything that looked like a clump of dirt. I knew that the dirt would have built up around anything hard, especially metal coins.

     Dirt, stones, twigs and other parts of indefinable objects had been deposited over a great many years, layer after layer, by the flood of water that would gather from the upper part of town into a vertical tunnel beside the main road. There it would drop several feet and then flow into an arched tunnel under the road, where it would flow to the edge and then drop about ten feet into the ravine where I was digging.

     I continued looking at everything I found closely and with intensity. The search went on for awhile and then it happened…

     I felt the twig touch something hard. I looked closely. Was it just another pebble, a clump of hard dirt or was it something else? I pushed the twig gently behind the promising clump and pushed it out of the surrounding dirt. I then picked it up with eager fingers and inspected it closely.

     At first glance, it looked like a dirt-encrusted button; but it felt heavier than a button. I rubbed my fingers against both surfaces, but the crust was very hard and would not come off.

     I was so intrigued by my find that I stopped the dig. I rushed up the steps on the side of the ravine and I walked hastily toward the nearby fountain. I washed and scrubbed and washed some more. Gradually the hardened dirt wore off and my hopes were validated. It was not a button -- it was another coin.

     The irregular circle framed what looked like an ancient face, like the ones I had seen in history books. On the other side appeared what looked like a horn-like shape.  I became quickly convinced that it was a very old coin; without doubt older than all the ones that had already been found.

     Proud of my discovery, I rushed to show it off to my friends. Without doubt, I had suddenly become the undisputed winner of the coin war and I wanted all to know. I shared the find with all my friends and they looked at my coin with tangible envy. This time, victory was mine.

     Given the amazing find, we probably went back for more but the search may have been in vain. I do not recall sharing my technique with anyone. I probably guarded it jealousy for future use.

     I returned another time and continued the search but, finally, even the technique failed to produce more fruit. Happy with my find, I rested on my laurels.

     Not long after, deep holes were dug into the ravine’s dark ground and, afterwards, the workers poured cement into them. Tall wooden casings were nailed together and finally pillars rose to road level. Soon the first floor was shaped and finally the location became inaccessible. Some of us hopeful kids continued seeking down the rugged valley past the Mayor’s house and found a few more rusty and consumed old coins, but nothing more.

     Finally the search for ancient coins was officially over. In the few days that followed, the excitement of the finds gradually waned. The time had come for another adventure. Someone suggested a related activity: searching for old stamps. We all found it to be a great idea and another adventure began which kept us busy for several more weeks.

UNCOVERING THE TRUTH

     The coin was still covered with a brown film that would not wash off.  Its total beauty and specific age were yet to be uncovered. But soap and water had not been enough; something more powerful had to be found.

     One day my parents went to visit the city of Vibo Valentia, the largest city in our area. My father and mother went to shop at a store on the main street. Nearby I noticed a hardware store. I told my parents I would have gone next door to buy something and they allowed me to go. I quickly went to the hardware store, walked to the back and asked a clerk if he had anything strong enough to clean metals. He did.

     He looked on the shelf behind him and found a small bottle. I bought the promising bottle which contained a milky substance.  I was eager to go home to try the miracle liquid, to see what else was hiding behind the dark-brown film which still covered my precious coin.

     Once home, I immediately poured a few drops of the promising white, thick substance on one side and quickly wiped it off with a cloth. A black stain appeared on the cloth, while, simultaneously, a stunning, clearly formed head of a woman appeared on that side of the coin.

     I turned to the coin to the other side and repeated the process. The horn suddenly became more pronounced and something unclear appeared as if coming out from it.  It wasn’t just a horn -- it was a "Cornucopia," otherwise known as a “Horn of Plenty.”

     I do not recall if I repeated the process more than once. I vaguely remember being concerned that such a potent substance could have eaten into the coin and could have damaged it; so I stopped using it.

     There was no doubt about it. The head was that of someone ancient; perhaps someone from ancient Rome. At that point I knew for sure that I had a real winner but, unfortunately, I could not see any date. The only thing I could see was what looked like a “5” or an “S” on both sides.

              More proud than ever, I put the coins in a small metal box and I hid them in a well-protected location.

Both sides of the ancient coin

THE MADONNA CELEBRATIONS

     The coin and stamp collecting phase may have come to an end but we children were soon to enter the most exciting time of year: the Madonna celebrations which took place the second Sunday in August that all of us Capistranesi, young and old, longed for every year. The special celebration is known to us as, “La Festa della Madonna della Montagna” (The Feast of the Madonna of the Mountain), also known as “La Festa della Madonna di Polsi” (The Feast of the Madonna from Polsi).

     This was a joyous, yearly event meant to honor Mary, the mother of Jesus and her statue found on the central altar of the main church. The statue is dressed in a stunning, shining, light-yellow, flowing dress and a blue mantle, both of which, without doubt, are made of high-quality cloth. The crowned Mary sits with a regal posture inside a glass niche illuminated by soft, warm lights; her face is pink, soft, youthful and loving. Her baby Jesus stands erect on her left leg, clothed with a shimmering, somewhat feminine yellow baby dress, but with a confident, divine demeanor.

     Most Italian towns worship Mary but with slight variations. They are all given a somewhat different name; they have a somewhat different look; their dress is somewhat different. Yet they all have the same reassuring and very loving, motherly look.

     Our very special Madonna was, “Mary of the Mountain.” She was “our” Mary and to us she was special above all others. To us Capistranesi she was the ultimate source of comfort and we all took time to visit her in the church, whenever possible, to bathe in in her warmth and in her love.

     Of course, we tried not to give much importance to the fact that our Mary had, in actuality, been imported from another Calabrian town and, thus, her other name: “La Madonna di Polsi” (The Madonna from Polsi); Polsi being the name of the town it had been worshipped in, long before it began being worshipped in our town.

     Now, how did this overlap occur? This is the story:

     One of the most popular traditions tells us that in 1144 a farmer, in the Polsi area, was desperately searching for his lost bull and finally found it kneeling on the ground, before an iron cross it had dug out of the ground. The farmer, moved by what he saw, got on his knees and started praying and, while doing so, Mary appeared to him and shared with him her wish that a church be built on that location.

     The church was built; a very heavy statue of Mary was sculpted and she has been worshipped in Polsi ever since. In the 1700’s a priest by the name of Don Domenico Zerbi was assigned to serve in Capistrano. In July of 1757, he went to Polsi on a pilgrimage and brought back to Capistrano various icons of the Madonna, which were placed in the local church for worship.

     In time a statue was commissioned. The sculptor who took on the job was maestro Antonio Reggio, who came down from Naples to accomplish the task. The very beautiful statue was finally delivered and was consecrated the Sunday after Easter, in 1759.

      Since then the statue has become the most beloved sacred object in our town. The image remains chiseled in the hearts all of the Capistranesi around the world who have retained their Catholic faith. Most of them return home, when possible, to see their families and their special mother, during the time of the “Festa della Madonna della Montagna” (The Feast of the Madonna of the Mountain), which takes place the second Sunday in August. 

     We who grew up in the town, no matter how long we’ve been away, vividly remember the Madonna Festa from days gone by. We treasure the images of the light-covered arches constructed over the major streets for the occasion; the round stage in the main Piazza, covered with its wooden dome adorned with streams of lights shooting upwards toward the peak. We fondly remember the bands that came to perform for the occasion, the singers that livened the evenings with classical and popular songs and, most of all, the procession through the town. On Sunday afternoon, the glimmering statue was slowly carried by strong men through the major streets, while the band played the unforgettable, lively tune, taking turns with the ladies who sang the brief prayer of intercession to their heavenly advocate.

     The attachment to this statue is so strong that the two biggest Capistrano communities abroad have each commissioned a replica of their beloved Madonna and, on the second Sunday of August, they gather in parks in both Toronto, Canada and Melbourne, Australia to celebrate “their” heavenly mother, as they did back home.

     As a young boy basking in the joys of the Festa, I never thought that the day would have come when I would have left those celebrations behind or that, decades later, I would have seen a replica of that statue devoutly paraded through a Canadian Park, accompanied by the same familiar sound and the same familiar prayer. 

ALMOST ROBBED OF MY TREASURE

     One day, probably not long after school started, I brought my ancient coin to school. I had shown it off to my fellow students. I believe I also wanted to show my teachers how special I had become.

     That morning I told a male teacher about the coin and he immediately asked to see it. As expected, he too was mesmerized by it. He looked at both sides intently and repeatedly and then, unexpectedly, he went on to pronounce himself as to its identity: “This coin is a Roman coin,” he told me with confidence; “This is a Roman Sextersius.”

     I heard the words pour out from his lips like magical sounds and I quickly stored them in my mind so as to never forget them. Finally I had the pronouncement of an "authority;" finally I knew for sure it was a very old “Roman” coin and that it was a, “Roman Sextersius.”

     But the “Authority” did not stop at simply informing me about my coin. After sharing his precious knowledge with me, he paused for an instant and, with a wily smile, he said invitingly, “Why don't you give it to me?”

     I may have been only ten or eleven, but I was not the kind of kid who would separate himself from his treasure simply to ingratiate himself with a teacher. I knew instantly what he was up to and refused to go along with his game.

     “No!” I said firmly, with a pleasant but fake smile. That was "my" coin and no one was going to take it away from me, and that included the one who had finally given it an identity.

     The teacher did not insist. He knew when a "no" was a definite, "no" and I made it very clear that my "No!" was very definite. From that day on, I never again brought my coin back to school and, never again, as far as I can recall, did I show it to anyone else in my town.

RENOIR IN CAPISTRANO?

     The new school year began. New teachers appeared. My new art teacher, Franco Natale, a local teacher, was wonderful to have.  He was brimming with energy; he was confident, creative and always warm and friendly. He belonged to the Natale family, a family of exceptionally gifted people, artistically and musically. His grandfather was Maestro Natale, who many years ago had been the town’s Postmaster, the town’s Mayor and the Maestro of the local band. My father, who knew him well, described him as eccentric, intense and brilliant. His genes clearly were passed on to several of his descendents who later excelled in various fields.

     Franco was particularly gifted in art. He had discovered his artistic talents while in the police force. Later he became an art teacher and I had the privilege of being one of his students. Little did we know that tall, dynamic and enthusiastic man, many years later, would have become a successful artist who would have won several art awards.

     One day Mr. Natale shared with us something which, by the look on his face, appeared to be particularly important. He announced to us grade sevens something he had concluded about the, “Baptism of Jesus'” mural found on the wall behind the baptistery of our main church. His conclusion was that it had been painted by a man whose name we had never heard before: “Renoir.”

      We had no idea of who Renoir had been, but we knew that he had to have been an important painter. It was also evident by the name that he was not Italian. What was a foreigner, who obviously had to have been very important, doing in a small town located among olive groves, in a far away land? It was a puzzle, but at our young age we did not really care.

     Mr. Natale announced that he was planning to ask the people from the Ministry of Fine Arts to come and look at the mural, so as to validate his views. I stored the announcement in the same location of my mind where the name of my coin had been stored, so as not to be forgotten -- and it was never forgotten.

     Probably the summer that followed, while I was playing in the piazza, I saw Mr. Natale, Don Nicolino Manfrida, our parish priest, and two authoritative-looking people enter the church. I was quite sure Mr. Natale was showing them the mural. I do not recall how long they stayed in the church, but I immediately suspected that they had to have been the people Mr. Natale was hoping to get to come and investigate.  Of course, I had no way of validating my suspicion and to today I have no idea as to who they were.

     I heard nothing about their verdict. But I did not forget the evolving story. I kept all the details stored in my mind. The verdict was finally rendered several years later.

     Upon my return home, many years later, I found that Mr. Natale's views had been validated. The consensus was that Renoir, the famed French impressionist painter, had indeed come to our town and that he had totally re-painted parts, or all of the mural, as his son had written about in his biography, Renoir my Father.

     I have recently discovered that, in reality, Mr. Natale had not been the first one to conclude that Renoir had visited and had done some work in my town. Two teachers by the name of Giovanni Curatola and Giuseppe Pisani, who were teaching in Capistrano, and a journalist by the name of Sharo Gambino had reached this conclusion before Mr. Natale, upon reading Renoir's biography. Mr. Natale was informed of the possibility by his two colleagues and he too quickly became a firm supporter of that view.

     In the aforementioned biography, Renoir’s son describes his father’s trip to Calabria intended to visit a priest, whom had met while in Naples. The priest described to him the beauty of Calabria and that inspired Renoir to travel south to visit the area. “While in Naples, Renoir stayed in a little inn patronized especially by the clergy. ‘When we sat down to eat spaghetti with tomato sauce, I was the only not dressed in black.’”

    He then shares that his father, “had great discussions on theology with a man next to him, a gaunt priest with a huge nose.” He continues, “The priest in question was from Calabria, and his description of his part of the country gave my father a desire to see it. And so Renoir set out with a letter of introduction from the bishop, which his friend had obtained.”

     Because there were few railroads and roads in Calabria, “he did part of the journey in a fishing boat, going from one port to another and the rest on foot.”

     During his trip to Calabria, the French painter used the bishop’s letter to help him find accommodations in priest’s homes along the way, who showed him much kindness. “Often a parish priest who had only a pallet to sleep on would turn it over to him, and go himself to sleep in the stable with the donkey.”

     What left Renoir astounded about Calabria was the poverty of the area. Yet in spite of their poor condition, Calabrians welcomed Renoir warmly and did their best to make his visit as comfortable as possible. “The poverty of the region was almost unbelievable. Yet everyone put himself out to receive the visitor.”

     The food eaten by our ancestors consisted of a few basics. “The meals were more than simple. In some villages the inhabitants lived entirely on beans, and had seldom tasted spaghetti or macaroni...”

     Because of lack of bridges, Renoir had difficulty crossing some rivers swollen by heavy rains. In one case he told his son that he had no way of crossing one particular river. The solution was offered by a peasant woman who saw him unable to cross. She called a dozen or so other peasants who were working in the fields nearby, and “they all came to the rescue, laughing and chattering in their dialect…” The peasants came up with an ingenious solution. “They picked up my father and his baggage, waded into the river, and forming a line across it, passed him from one to another like a rugby football.”

     Renoir was touched by all the kindness our people and wanted to reciprocate. They were not particularly interested in his money, but they gladly accepted a portrait of their “bambino.”

     Renoir’s son then shares with us the most relevant detail: “In a mountain village Renoir restored the frescoes, which had been destroyed by humidity.” Renoir told his son that he had no experience in fresco painting nor did have the necessary paints to do the job. Being resourceful, he found what he needed at local mason’s. “I didn’t know much about fresco painting. I found some paints in powder form, at the mason’s in the village.” Given the low quality of the material used, he asked himself, “I wonder if what I did lasted.”

     His stay in Calabria and my town must have been exceptionally positive. His final assessment of my people gives me a deep feeling of sadness and pride. “All the Calabrians I met were generous and so cheerful in the midst of their poverty.”[1] Though Calabrians in those challenging days lived in abject poverty, they coped with the paucity in their lives with cheerfulness and were very kind and giving people toward strangers.

     According to Pino La Serra, a local artist, art restaurateur and President of the Renoir in Capistrano Association, Renoir went to my town and, upon visiting the local church in the company of Don Francesco Bongiorno, the town's wealthiest man, he saw behind the baptistery a mural badly damaged by humidity. Renoir was shocked by the condition of the fresco. Don Francesco asked him if he could repair it. After at first refusing, he promised him that, upon his return from his trip to other southern areas he would have fulfilled his wishes. Renoir kept his word in May of 1882 when he returned to Capistrano and completed the promised work in the space of three days. Among other proofs, a drawing titled, “Calabrian Landscape” by Renoir was offered by Pino as further evidence that Renoir had indeed come and worked in my town. The drawing shows Capistrano as it looked in the late 1800’s, as seen from the Batia area, with our church clearly represented in the distance. [2] 

     In recent years more evidence of Renoir’s visit to Capistrano and of his work on the “Baptism of Jesus” and other murals has been offered by the local artist-philosopher, Mario Guarna, in his book Gli affreschi di Renoir a Capistrano (Renoir’s Frescos in Capistrano).[3] In his book, Mario proposes interesting stylistic evidence to support the presence of Renoir’s touch in some of the frescos found in the church.

     The fact that Renoir came to Capistrano and that he left his artistic witness in the main church became a source of great pride for my people who had, up to that point, so little to be proud of. The square where I spent so many special moments as a child was renamed, “Piazza Renoir.” Presently tourists that tour our area of Calabria are, on occasion, taken to see the Capistrano Renoir, to the delight of many Capistranesi.

LEAVING FOR “AMERICA”

     In June, 1967, as I was playing in the foyer of the Palazzo Brizzi, where the middle school was being hosted, my father suddenly and furtively appeared in the entrance and asked me to follow him.

     I was confused; it was about midday; school was not yet over and my father had come to school to take me home. He had never done this before and the whole thing was puzzling. I tried to get an explanation but he walked fast and was very evasive. "Be quiet and just follow me," he said.

     We walked quickly down the Corso, crossed the empty square and within a few minutes we were home. Then the news: the time had come to leave for Canada.

     The big cardboard suitcases were ready. My few clothes had been packed. I quickly made sure my coins were safely stowed away. We would have been driven the Saint Eufemia train station on a 60’s Fiat mini van.

     The neighbors were informed at the last minute and the news spread like wildfire. Antonio, the barber, Teresa and Michele were leaving for America. A large group of town’s people gathered to give their emotional goodbyes.  I promised my best friend I would have written; I told the others I would have returned. Then off we went, and on to my newest adventure – one that would have never left me bored again.

THE AMAZING TRIP

     I looked behind me, as the car was leaving my beloved town. I waved goodbye to my friends from the back seat of the car. We slowly drove north leaving behind the centre of town where my house was located. I saw the meandering valley on my left, the Rocca Mountain and the Mediterranean Sea far away in the distance. We passed Maestro Fera's home, the ever-running Batia Fountain, my Nonna's house and then the last house…    

     The twisty road took us to Monterosso, the nearby town. We wound our way through the busy streets and, as we were leaving the town, from the back window I saw Brunina, a gracious young lady, and school friend from my town, walking down Monterosso’s main street with her mother. She was the last friend I saw that day. She did not see me and I wish she had, as she was a dear childhood friend. I knew it would have been a very long time until I would have seen her again.

     We travelled down the valley; passed Monterosso's cemetery and on toward the Angitola Lake. We rode beside the recently-created artificial lake, passed beside the Rocca Angitola Mountain on our left. I looked up the steep mountain for the last time and we quickly traveled down to the St. Eufemia Plain adjacent to the Mediterranean Sea where, within minutes, we reached the area’s main train station.

     The train trip is a blur. I do not recall how long it took us to get to Naples or any details surrounding the trip. Most of it must have been a night trip.

     My next memories are of the harbor building in the port city of Naples. Its main hall was crowded with ugly wooden benches and hundreds of people waiting to board the gigantic ship. Nearby I do remember seeing an impressive castle with very high walls – and the lofty Vesuvius in the distance. Then the unforgettable trip began.

     We boarded the Cristoforo Colombo liner, one of the major passenger ships in the Italian fleet.  It was huge and swift and it would have taken us to our destination in about 9 days. The ship was filled with Italian emigrants and many American and Canadian tourists who were returning home from their trip to “Romantic Italy.”

     I can never forget the ship’s gradual departure, the hand waving from the peer. The gradual disappearance of the city of Naples; the picturesque harbor and the majestic Vesuvius. As Italy was disappearing in the horizon, I must have felt a deep feeling of sadness mixed with a longing for the promising and exciting unknown.

     My family was assigned to a dining table we were to stay at for the whole trip. We shared the table with a lovely Italian-Canadian woman and her two children: a pretty short-haired girl about my age and her lively younger brother. They had gone to visit family back home, while the dad had stayed back in Canada.

     The trip was pleasant and exciting, for as along as we were traveling over the placid Mediterranean. The ship was filled with beautiful halls; the lounging areas were spacious and comfortable. Movies in English were being shown in the evening for the English-speaking tourists. I heard the tourists laugh a lot, but I was not interested. Most of my time was spent with the young fellow I ate with, or simply looking at the deep-blue sea and the endless horizon.

     Within two days the majestic cliffs of Gibraltar appeared on the horizon. I stared at all the visible details of the steep, stony mountain, storing the wonder in my mind to this very day.

     About two days after Gibraltar, I was again mesmerized by two Azores islands we passed between. The one on the north side looked rugged, dark and mysterious, the one facing it, on the south side, looked like an enchanted isle from a fable book, with countless terraced gardens climbing up a mountain, spotted by sparkling white houses and churches. Then more ocean…  

     After the Azores, the trip felt long and tiring. Ahead were four more days of gray waters and cloudy skies. It was during this phase that nausea set in and it prevented me from looking at the water. I was forced to spend my time inside the ship, which I gladly did so as not to feel nauseous.

     I shared the cabin with an older Italian emigrant who was also going to Canada. The man was quiet and strangely aloof. He asked little of me and I reciprocated gladly.  

     After the four dreary, tiring days, finally...land.

     Before entering the Halifax Harbor, we passed by many small, rocky islands covered with evergreens. The ship moved very slowly, as it approached the harbour. Finally we reached our longed-for destination.

FROM HALIFAX TO MONTREAL

     The harbor looked old and unappealing. The ship stopped near the pier. We left the ship and finally rested our feet on the land called, Canada. The location was the now-famous, “Pier 21.” We were then directed to a very large building, nearby.

     Once inside the building, I saw the Customs’ officials on my left as they were opening the large trunks the immigrants were bringing along. We saw clothes, salamis and plastic jugs of olive oil being taken out. We heard the uniformed officials trying to communicate with the newcomers in vain. There were questions asked and justifications offered, but neither side really understood. Some food may have been kept; most was mercifully allowed to go on. I was a noisy and chaotic sight.

     Afterwards, we entered a large hall with a very high ceiling. The floor was lined with wooden benches as in Naples, but the hall was larger and it allowed more space between them. We sat on the first set of benches, as my father tried to sort out where we would get our luggages.

    We had no food and the trip to Montreal would have been long. We went to a small convenience store, beside the huge waiting hall and, at the bottom of a shelf we found a strange-looking bread in a plastic bag. It was white, square and it was cut into many slices. By pressing the bag one could tell that it was also “very” soft. My parents were puzzled by the staple and giggled. I was intrigued. Little did we know how much of that strange–looking bread we would have eaten in the future…

     Because there was no other kind of bread, my father bought it anyway. He also bought sliced meat or cheese as well and we were ready for the next part of our journey.

     While in the hall, something happened that I will never forget. As we were sitting on the benches, a beautiful, tall lady, probably in her forties, dressed in a dark blue uniform, slowly approached me, took what I vaguely remember to have been a lollypop out of a small basket and gave it to me. Her face exuded warmth and kindness and made me feel very welcome.  The lady, in a way, was symbolic of the nation that would have become my adoptive mother – and I felt reassured. Her memory is chiseled in my heart.

     The trip on the old and decrepit train was far from comfortable. The night came quickly and so did the cold. It was June and yet the night air was strangely cold like our month of March. Late at night, a uniformed older man walked by and my father stopped him and acted as though he was shivering. The man understood, smiled and went to turn on the heating. The rest of the night was comfortable and restful. He was also a kind-looking human being. I remember him clearly as well.

     We traveled the whole night and part of the next day. The train was slow and stopped many times. The trip must have taken 24 hours, as we reached Montreal late the next day.

FINALLY IN MONTREAL

     Once in the main station in Montreal, we left the train all excited about the nearing reunion with family members I had never met before. I would soon see again my beloved aunt Maria, Zio Saro and my dear cousins Rocco, Palma, Mary and Michelina, I had seen depart years before, and Tony and Alba, born to my aunt while in Canada.

     We took the escalator and rode it to the main floor. There we met my uncle Domenic and his wife, Zia Raffaela, an exceptionally warm and loving woman. My uncle Domenic was young, friendly and confident.

     We climbed on a gigantic sixties car and left the train station. We may have gone immediately nearby to my aunt Maria’s and uncle Saro’s house in one of the older parts of downtown Montreal, named Saint Antoine, near downtown Montreal. There we were later met by bubbly Zio Filippo, Zia Lisa and their two children, Mike and Josephine.

     We lived there about a month, while my father underwent a barber's test, so as to start working in his profession. He learned a few basic French and English expressions and then found a benevolent older, English-speaking employer who gave him the opportunity to practice his trade.

     While there I had to get used to a new kind of panorama; not the beautiful green valleys and the mesmerizing Mediterranean --  a testimony to God’s greatness -- but tall and proud skyscrapers, a testimony to human ingenuity – and pride.

     That summer my cousins and I visited the nearby skyscrapers often. We especially liked visiting them on the weekend when few people were around and we could slide down the long armrests without attracting adult attention. We also enjoyed going up and down Place Ville Marie’s elevators, but that activity came quickly to a halt when we were asked by a security guard to leave and not return.

     We left my Aunt Maria's house after about one month and moved to a small, ground-floor apartment in Ville Emard, on the outskirts of the Montreal. Right across was a take-out restaurant with an ever-rotating giant basket, on a tall, thin, metal pillar. It was named, Kentucky Fried Chicken.

    I became very close to my newly-found cousins. They all had very original personalities: Mike (the oldest), Uncle Domenic’s son, was the leader and we often followed him in getting ourselves into new adventures, -- and some trouble. Mike (the second oldest), my Uncle Filippo’s son, was very bright and had a way of reinforcing the oldest Mike’s adventurous spirit. Little Rocco, the youngest of the group, was bright and vivacious but was compelled by his age to simply follow along. Josie, my younger, lovable cousin, inspired much teasing -- and still does. Julia was from youth an unbelievable dynamo – and still is. Little Rocky was born, not long after our arrival. He was a gorgeous child, with energy and spunk that stayed with him unto this day.

     We were very happy in our Montreal apartment. It was small but quite comfortable. Unfortunately, the area was far from welcoming to immigrants. While there, several French-Canadian kids had been very welcoming and friendly; a few others would taunt me at every occasion. Fights broke out several times. Life became quite challenging for a boy from Calabria.

     I knew no English but I knew a fair amount of French. I knew that “Maudi Spaghetti” (Cursed Spaghetti) was not an endearing expression and I heard it often. My cousins taught me to retort with, “French Pea Soup,” but it wasn’t as strong an expression as the former.

     Fortunately, as the decades went on, the French and the Italians discovered that they had much in common. The French found that spaghetti were not that bad after all. Presently, my cousin Rocco is married to a French-Canadian lady and I am pleased to say that Sylvie is nothing less than a jewel, as are their French-Italian children. Our dear family friend, Renée, is like a sister and she is as French Canadian as can be.

     My first school was Holy Cross, a tall, dark-gray brick building. There I was shielded by my cousins and the Catholic atmosphere. Within months I moved to a local public high school, again with my cousins; but we were in different grades, so I was left to fend for myself. In that school I was taunted only once by an English-Canadian boy, but I stood my ground. The boy laughed at my funny accent and let me be.

     My English improved. My love for art was born. I discovered I could draw and was encouraged by it.

     Like déjà vu, one late fall day, one year and one half after our arrival, my father showed up at the school and I was called down to the office. My father had already told the secretary that we were moving to Toronto. Montreal had shut its doors to my father’s dream of opening his own barber shop. His English or French were simply insufficient to pass the test required for a license that would have permitted him to own his own business.

    But my father had done his homework. The province of Ontario was less demanding. In Toronto he could open his own business with a simple barber’s license, which he already had.

     We left French Canada behind. We left most of our family behind, as well. In Toronto I had my uncle Rocco and aunt Nina and my cousins, Mike, Angela and Palma, I had yet to meet. 

     My coin, my faithful friend, was with me and I protected it -- jealously.

HIGH SCHOOL AND BEYOND

     Then the end of the year came. The teacher asked me which school I wanted to go to. This was a turning point in my life and I didn't know it. I was not ready to move on to an academic high school. My English was still quite limited. Other kids in my situation were sent to a vocational school – a dead-end place supposedly for the lazy and the not so able. I escaped the same fate by telling the teacher I wanted to go to Central Technical School, to be in the art program and become an artist. That was OK with her.

     Thus I was able to escape the area’s infamous vocational school. Some of my friends were not. Many attended the school for awhile and then quit. They found the school too boring and ended up going to work. They were neither lazy nor incapable. They were bright kids who simply needed help with their English and they would have done exceptionally well. Later it became obvious that the system had robbed many young immigrant kids of their deserved opportunities and, fortunately, the system was changed, but by then it was too late for thousands of immigrant kids. Fortunately, because of their high intelligence and their eagerness to succeed, most became successful in whatever field they entered in, in spite of the initial obstacles.

     Two years at Central Tech were followed by two years at Oakwood Collegiate. Then two years at a liberal arts college in Pasadena, California. Pollution forced me to return and enroll at a Toronto University.

While there I met my gorgeous wife, Leonilda, a stunning central Italian young lady who also spoke Italian fluently. My first job came nine months after graduation at the Youth Clinical Services affiliated to York Finch Hopital. There I counseled psychologically disturbed young people and their families. Soon after, I married Leonilda and two years later our first child, Anthony, was born, followed by Julie, our only girl. While working at YCS, I also finished a Masters’ in counseling in three years of part-time studies.

     Three years in Rome, Italy followed, when Victor was born. At the end of the three years, we returned to Toronto when I decided to move into education. I worked as a high school teacher and counselor for nearly two decades. I also taught psychology at Toronto’s Seneca College for almost the same amount of time. During that very fulfilling time, Leonilda and I bought a new comfortable home in the suburbs where we raised our precious children. Life was good.

     Throughout these years my coins remained my special treasure. They were well protected and safely stored away.

RELIABLE INFORMATION ABOUT MY COIN

     Many years after the above events, while counseling in a high school in the Malton area near the Toronto airport, one day I decided the time had come to confirm if my coin was indeed a “Sextersius” and when and by whom it had been minted. I sought through verious web sites and finally the amazing surprise: I found my coin on a web site on ancient coins.

     I stared at the screen in disbelief. There was no doubt about it-- it was my coin. Then the details: it was an ancient coin from the Greek-speaking, Roman colony of Hipponium or Valentia (Formerly Hipponion) on the west side of Calabria, the region I came from. In fact the Hipponium area was on a straight line only about 15 km away from my town.

     I looked closely for a date, but there was no date. There was no mention of the type of coin it was, nor was there any explanation of the identity of the female head I had looked at for decades. I was quite pleased, but I had to wait many more years to finally find those details.  

THE CAPISTRANO BOOK

     During one of my rare visits back home, I was overjoyed to find a book written by a local historian on the history of the town. The book was surprisingly thorough and scholarly. The author, Dr. Giovanni Manfrida, was a top notch academic. He had been a teacher, a Mayor in our town and finally the Superintendent of schools in our area of the Region of Calabria. The book was exceptionally well written -- and fascinating.

     Over the years I read the book, or sections thereof, several times and every time I had been fascinated by the events and people described in it. I protected the book with almost as much passion as my coin collection.

     As a child I had been told by my mother that the people from our town had moved inland centuries before from a fortress city on the mountain adjacent to the Mediterranean Sea one could see clearly from my town. The city was named Rocca Angitola (The Angitola Fortress).  The book confirmed that fact -- and added many more.

     It also made evident that my people and the people who had created the towns nearby had experienced many anguishing and tragic historical events.  My coin, most probably, had been in the possession of various people through the centuries, as they had faced the many nightmarish events described in the book.

     As in all other areas of the world, regular epidemics had swept through Capistrano and had killed countless people. Malaria had been very common, as were other diseases that ravaged young and old. But, to my surprise, for centuries earthquakes had been the most terrifying curse to oppress my people.

CONTINUED IN SECTION 2 -- CLICK HERE

PER LEGGERE LA SEZIONE # 2, CLICCATE QUI

© Copyright, Michael Caputo, 2011 (This work may not be reproduced in part or in full without the permission of the author.)