Written by Karen Zach
One of the most awesome genealogical experiences I’ve had – ever – was sitting down with my Italian grandmother (Nona) while she discussed, in detail, the home where she lived in the small village of Lotta. In fact, we talked about it a lot and I enjoyed it every single time.
Her parents had wanted her to marry young but their parents were adamant about it – no – you’ll make too many babies so my great grandfather came to America and worked for seven years sending money back to her to keep for them.
When he returned, they married, purchased some land and built a home. From my grandmother’s description it sounded like a mansion (later I discovered not so much yet imagine in that time frame it was impressive). She told of the long table that seated all nine of them plus my grandmother’s grandmother (who, by the way, died four days short of 100 yrs).
Rinaldo Berti, Nona’s father, was a logger and they used their little mini-farm to raise all the food for the large family. I always thought it quite ironic that they weren’t allowed to marry because of having too many children yet they had seven grow to adulthood. Side note: my grandmother almost didn’t speak to me for weeks when I was filling out genealogy charts and asked for her mother’s name, “…last name first, please”. Nona answered: Galli (pronounced Golly) – I smiled but kept quiet. First name: Possidonia (pussy-don-ya) but my cousin and I let loose on that one giggling like mad. That’s what she got – mad at us. We continued however and I was pleased that she knew so much about her ancestry. Nothing on my grandfather’s however (Antonio Bazzani) and she insisted I’d never find my five-generations because his family was itinerant farmers and moved all over. As a side note, after reading the old LDS microfilms for hours, I did discover the five generations and beyond – all right there in the Lotta area!
Back to the home and my awesome experience! When I was almost 40, my cousin (my mom had one sister who never married; dad one sister who had two sons so tiny family) asked if I wanted to go to Italy with them. Well, yeah!
That October we went. Actually, we went to Germany and stayed with the foreign exchange student they had had. Then by train, we went on to Lotta. On the way, I fell asleep. Cousin Frank woke me up and said, “Karen, look where we are!” Still, 95% asleep I squinted at the town’s sign at the depot. “Piss – a?” I asked. A few snickers on the train but I still didn’t get it! “Karen, look down that street.” Well, hmmm. I asked him – what’s that weird building down there – it looks like it’s about to fall over. “Karen, the Leaning Tower of …” OH! Pisa! Everyone burst out laughing and I was so embarrassed. That was just one story of the many crazy things that happened to us on the trip, but that can be another blog sometime I can share!
We were going to rent a car and drive in the scary mountains up to Lotta but I got the idea we needed an interpreter. I knew a few words of Italian, mostly cuss words I learned from my grandfather plus drink and such as that. Frank spoke fluent Italian and he didn’t think we needed one. I insisted and paid for Mario, a driver/interpreter. He was a blast but thought we were nuts paying him all that money to go see a little village in the lower Alps. The very first thing that happened when we got there was worth the money to me.
You ever see any old Italian movies where a person takes their hand and kisses taking their arm up saying, “Grazie!” Thank you! Well, our Mario did just that. It was so awesome! So, he found out from a lady who was shaking out her rugs from an upstairs window (saying Grazie to her) where the Berti family lived. Actually, it was my grandmother’s niece to whom we went. Neat home and even though we’d not warned them we were coming (didn’t know for sure what day) they were so gracious, so excited about having Nona’s family there. We went to her brother’s and ate lunch at his tavern and it was so delicious – just like sitting down to my grandmother’s table. Mario especially liked it as I don’t drink so he got my bottle of wine and his, too.
We looked at many pictures and visited the graveyard, also a story in itself. I saw a photo of my young father I had never seen before. Our Italian cousin knew right who he was – tried to take a picture of it and our cameras wouldn’t work in the moist air there. Afterward, we went to the small church they attended. Frank went straight to the altar, I stopped in my tracks seeing Carolina Berti on the back of a pew. That’s my Nona. The priest came out to talk to us and explained that the villagers would honor a member of their family who left the community for a better life by putting their name on the back of the pew.
Next, we went to Nona’s childhood home. Her description of the shelf where they laid to watch the huge sun was perfect… but the home was locked, the key in France with one of the cousins who owned it for his summer home. Our cousin showing us around had been in it many times and began to tell us about it but I said, “Wait!” And gave them a perfect narrative of what the house looked like inside. Thanks, Nona – love you! By the way, Mario wouldn’t accept a tip because he said that he now understood why we wanted to go (love of family, seeing where they lived …) and that it was the best day he’d ever had in the 17 years he’d been in that job!
