A Bell for Adano
Historical fiction is one of today’s most popular genres. From the Peloponnesian War to the war in Iraq and all points in between, you can read books that will give you a sense of what it was like to live in those times. Unsurprisingly, the most compelling of these works are created by the people who witnessed these momentous events, who were part of it. I think of such great novels as Hemmingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls, Heller’s Catch-22, and Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. John Hersey’s Pulitzer Prize winning A Bell for Adano, although not ranked as highly as these others, deserves praise. There is an authenticity to it that gives the reader a sense of what life in Italy must have been like as the war ended.
Noto Antica
There are days which will stand out in my life. This was one of them.
“Il bar più a sud d’Europa isole escluse.”
We were barely on the road when we stopped at an abandoned farmhouse. The farm had been made into a museum. Apparently, someone who had found some Roman mosaics and were chipping away pieces destroying them and obscuring the story these treasures told. As I understand it, someone had started farming here when they discovered what was under the ground. It reminds me of something a friend once told me. According to him, there is so very much history in the ground that every construction project uncovers something from the past.
The Road to Noto
What a great day!! It is our first day of riding and it has reminded me of why I love these trips so much. We left Syracuse this morning headed south-west toward the town of Noto. It was a short 34 miles, which I guess is a great way to start the trip. We don’t want to attempt anything too intense and the terrain was relatively flat, very little elevation gain. The sky was overcast as we began our travels making for a cool start to the day.
An Italian-American Christmas
Several years back, an evangelical Christian co-worker was complaining about the secularization of Christmas. “Jesus is the reason for the season,” he declared, literally raising his arm, pointing to the heavens above. “What does Christmas mean to you? Is it a holiday or an holyday?” he asked, almost daring me to answer incorrectly, or at least what he thought was incorrect.
Are Italian-Americans Italian?
Are Italian-Americans Italian? People keep telling me we aren’t. When I say I am Italian, Italian-Italians, those born in Italy, look at me with suspicion and scoff. American Uber-patriots chide me, telling me that I am American. In their minds, to associate myself the culture of my forbears is close to treason. With so many people telling me that I am not Italian, I cannot help but wonder if Italian-Americans are Italian.
Mythical Italy
Have you ever run into someone you have not seen in decades? I have. Recently, via social media, I made contact with a childhood friend. We had not seen each other since I was 15. He was an old man; what little hair he had was white and his belly hung over his belt. What happened? It was disheartening to later learn that he thought the same of me.
Being Italian American During a Covid Christmas
I am not sure how to start this post, how to do something other than contributing to the happy-happy-joy-joy holiday messages with which we have all been inundated over the past few weeks. However, I do have something to say as I reflect on this time of year and its relation to my cultural heritage, especially in light of the Covid pandemic.