In Spazzavento

Most things about this village seem utterly unchanged from our previous visits. When Henry and I went to the ATM at the bank across the street, we seemed to be the only ones outside. Dark green shutters were closed against the summer heat, and women were in their kitchens, preparing the next meals. While the street seemed deserted, we were observed. Soon, an elderly woman, apron tied at her waist, stepped out her door and peered at us, apparently overhearing us speaking English. While we are here we are observed in sidelong glances and the odd comment, "Americani."

We see differences in the homes. More televisions and cell phones; fewer neighborhood resources. There is a bank, a social club, the "Casa di Populi," and two beauty salons. Gone is the butcher, the jeweler's tiny basement shop, and the little grocery. Fewer people take the bus into Pistoia when they can drive the four kilometers.

What hasn't changed is that we have many family members who want to visit with us. We walk down the main street in single file as the sidewalk, where it exists, is too narrow to accommodate more than one person. Some homes have tiny terraces separating their front doors from the street. Pots of geraniums add bright color.

We visit Zia Mara, Henry's mother's sister, now 85 and widowed in the last six years. She describes the night her beloved husband died, at home in his own bed, as if it happened a week or two ago. She keeps his ashes near her bedside, and tells us how she often talks to him.

In the evening, as we finish dinner sometime after 9pm, cousins arrive, bringing the new addition to the family, bambino Daniele, his proud parents beaming at their young son. The room fills with laughter, as greetings and hugs are exchanged. The younger cousins soon depart to meet their friends. After all, it is only 11pm.