My Grandads old stories

[Happerry]

November 2, 1996



We rented a mid-sized Ford station wagon in Milan and after some grunting and pointing we took off to find an eastbound highway. It turned out to be a
toll road and as we didn't quite know where we were going it was OK for starters.. Earlier, we had tried to make a reservation at a hotel or motel or
bed-and-breakfast in the town of Piacenza, about 30 miles from Milan (55km), in a place where English was spoken (according to a tour book) but when we got
there we found out there was a huge convention going on, so we drove to the next larger town, Parma, where the same convention was happening.



Marguerite did all the driving as she threatened to get car sick if she didn't!



We had heard that driving was different in this country, but we had no idea it was this different -wild! Cars cut in and out with only a catswhisker
between fenders. She did a magnificent job; in the week or so we had that car, only two small scrapes were experienced!



In any event, we ended up at this fancy hotel, $200 per room, but it was OK we were told, because breakfast was included! And breakfast was served.
Through some language difficulty it ended up that the four of us were served six breakfasts.



Next morning, from Parma we headed East, this time on the old road, not the autostrada, to better enjoy the sights along the way, and it was delightful,
through one very small village after another, all quite picturesque. This took us to the outskirts of Reggio Emilia, where we turned South for a long much
turning road up the mountain, through another string of villages, an occasional tunnel, and finally, to Cervarezza, which is over the top and on the
Southwest down slope.



It seemed to me the higher up the mountain we went, the friendlier the people became, and they were not at all unfriendly down the hill.



There are two roads into Cervarezza. The high road on the up side of town where there are some relatively new buildings, and the old road through the
older part of town which we took, and fortunately turned out to be right one for us.. This was the only through-street through town, hemmed in on both sides
by old brick and block buildings, and Margy drove more carefully than usual as there were some pedestrians along the way. We drove past the Bar Italia, a
café kind of a place, which was the name of a connecting point our Internet guide, Dario Zanichelli, had given us a week or so before.



We stopped, of course, and I ran into this café place, carrying only a letter translated into Italian (by Helen Smith). I asked the bartender if I could
speak with Guiancarlo Zanichelli, and he told me he was a relative of Sr. Z., who is not here. I handed him this letter which he glanced at and then
handed it to a man alongside me at the bar, who also glanced at it and who in turn handed it to another man on the other side of me who began to read it
silently. Then he Whooped! And then began reading the letter aloud. By this time there was a cluster of men around us smiling and all talking at once
telling the reader to "go-on, go-on"!



The reader turned out to be Sergio Galassi, a cousin, somewhat remote on the family tree, but still, a cousin.



The conversation got more animated and two or three side conversations developed, and about this time my three fellow passengers - Jeanie, Margy, and
John came into the café, full of wonder and some trepidation, not knowing what to expect. They were quickly introduced, and the little crowd dispersed
somewhat.



Sergio and the four of us worked our way toward the back of the café, to an empty table where we stooped over a bar napkin where Sergio had written the
names of my grandfather, Riccardo, two brothers -Battista and Domenico, and a sister, Elvira. My great grandfather, Stanislaus, was a cousin of Sergio's
grandfather (I believe) and that's where our relationship lies. (There was somewhat of a language problem here: Sergio had some French, as did Jeanie
and Margy, and to a lesser extent myself, and I had some Italian but a lot of Italian sounds a lot like some of the Spanish I got mixed up with in the last
few years. In any event, Sergio's great grandfather may have been his great great grandfather and a twenty-second three times removed cousin from my
grandfather, but we did satisfy ourselves that we were cousins!)



This bar napkin with the four names on it became the base document of our newly structured family tree. After meeting a few more relatives, we quickly
transferred this information onto a regular and more durable paper notebook page. This later data eventually found it's way onto FamilyTreeWorks, a
computer based record keeping program.



In the next several days, we met and had identified for us, other Galassi family members, and as we were introduced to them, we pulled out this base
document with the four names on it, and asked, "Where in this tree, do you fit"? Generally speaking, each person would study it a little, then
plug into it which relative they identified with. From these new connections we would learn of others, and sometimes some more than usual interesting
information. Like, my grandfather's brother, Battista, went to Syria for awhile, but came back home. He died in a hospital just a few miles from
Cervarezza. He it is who wrote most of the letters we have copies of - written from around 1920 to 1931 - that got us started on this family search in the
first place!



In the course of our stay in Cervarezza, we were told that this village was 500-600 years old, and that there were less than ten families there as the
root stock, so to speak, of the village. These family names show up again and again on the headstones of the local cemeteries. According to Alfredo
Correggi, the "Capostipite de Cervarezza" are the Balzoni, the Beccarii, the Correggi, the Galassi, the Mazzoni, and the Zanichelli families!



We were told where different of our relatives were born, died and buried. To verify this sort of information, a person needs to visit the grave sites,
and inspect the church and county records, which we did not have the time to do, or having it, did not take enough time to, which all leads to the
conclusion that a specifically planned research trip is called for!



In any event, after some little while with Sergio at the Bar Italia, we mentioned to him that we would like to go up to the hotel Ilton, which was
recommended by Dario Zanichelli, but Sergio took us out to the street (via Di Resistanza) and walked us up past several buildings to another place, the Bar
Albergo Ventasso, a tourist hotel, but closed for the season. It has a café like set-up on the ground floor, which is kept open most of the year, and we were
introduced to the owner, Valentino Bucci.



To make a long story short, Valentino offered us to stay at his place which he would reopen for a few days for our convenience, and after some small
contemplation and observations of halo's and aura's and such, we agreed, and brought our baggage in. Margy parked the Ford in the upside back of the
hotel where no car could drive to, and we settled in.



We stayed there only three or four days, but it was a most adventuresome time, to say the least!

A couple days later, we met Luciana Benevelli Ferrari and Franco, and the next day, Gianni and Isamilla Notari and Caterina, and a day or so later, Zita
Costi. From Cervarezza we went to La Spezia on the Italian Riviera, where we met Marcello and Miryam Benevelli, and one of their grandsons, but this was a
little later. The point here is that each of the above is the closest relatives we have "over there!"



From Valentino's Ventasso, we sortied out to Talada, in search of the mulino, but had to turn around because the rio Secchia was too deep to ford on
foot at this time.



The WE, were the four travelers, Valentino's wife, Germina, Sergio Galassi, and Guiseppe----------------(I've misplaced his name:
'Bill' something.)

At the Mulino

In two cars, we threaded our way down to the little village of Talada, then reversed our route because of the high water on the Secchia, then back up
again and a long ways away, up the west side of the valley, finally crossing the river Secchia just below Sologno, where we parked the cars and walked up
river about three miles, to reach, finally, the mulino (the grist mill), where my father was born.



From the car place to the mulino, we walked through field after field, along the river bottom, where the grain that was fed into the huge stone grinders
used to be grown. Here and there we saw fresh sign where the wild boars had been rooting for tubers and the like. It was exciting!