Ewing and Pontelanolfo, Italy, resident Midge Guerrera has recently published a book, Cars, Castles, Cows, and Chaos.
The book, published by Trenton publisher Read Furiously, chronicles Guerrera’s transition from native Jersey Girl to very rural Italian.
In the following selection from the book, the actor, playwright, producer and former director of the New Jersey School for the Arts gives readers a quick tour of her half-time world as well as a taste of her book:
When you live in a part of Italy that has a bella vista at every turn in the road, any excuse for a drive on a beautiful day is a good excuse. I think my excuse on this particular day was I didn’t want to hang up the laundry. My adventuresome niece, Alex, was visiting us. It is even more fun to hop in the car and explore new places when you have great company — or in this case, a “you can do it” cheerleader. The sun was shining, the clouds were floating over the rolling hilltops and there was gas in our new-old Fiat, Silva.
This crisp clear wonderful day also happened to be the second Sunday in September, the one day a year they hold a mass in Santa Maria degli Angeli, an ancient stone mini chapel in Pontelandolfo’s mountains. We were in the car, deciding if we should take a left or a right out of the driveway, looked at each other and both said, “The church in the hills — al’ avventura!” We went to find that 16th century church and — as many unplanned excursions are — it was the beginning of an incredible adventure.
Here is a little back story about the church. Many Pontelandolfesi, including my ancestors, were contadini, farmers and, more often than not sharecroppers, farming the mountains for a piece of the vegetable pie. Others were shepherds, alone high in the hills, minding the flocks of cows, sheep and goats. Stone rifugi, shelters that were little more than huts, were and still are scattered in the hills. One dark night from the doorway of a rifugio the face of a single shepherd was suddenly contorted with fear. The air around him began to twirl and spin, spin and twirl until he was sucked up into the vortex of a giant tornado. His flock of sheep whirled around him. Panicked, he did the only thing he knew might save him: he prayed to the Madonna. Pledging to build a church in her honor wherever he landed, he prayed to be put down safely. He prayed and prayed and prayed. Until smash, boom, bang, he hit the ground. Dazed, but committed to the Madonna, he looked around to memorize the spot. It took a few years, but he made sure that the chapel got built.
That is the tale that I have been told by many of the folks in my village. Being a skeptic, I’ve done a little research and discovered other versions of the creation of the chapel — something about the Brotherhood, Pope Orsini, earthquakes, priests, nuns and well, stuff that Dan Brown novels are made of. However, the Wizard of Oz-esq legend suits my sense of drama.
The church was used a lot in the 17th and 18th centuries. The contadini, working and living in the mountains, made it their religious home. Times changed, and people moved on to bigger houses of worship. Now, the charming little space is only open one day a year. This was that day and Alex and I were going to find it.
Have I ever mentioned the irony of living in a southern Italian mountain village and hating roads that were based on goat and donkey trails? Narrow roads without guardrails that, like that tornado, whirl up the mountain, twisting and turning, scare the hell out of me. When Jack drives, I clutch the old lady hand-grabber, scream, moan and refuse to look at the beautiful valley hundreds of feet below that is calling me to a sure death entombed in a twisted heap of metal. The views are incredible! So, I’m told.
Was I going to admit my phobia to a young niece who has toured the world alone, decided to go to university in a foreign country and has been fearless since birth? Not on your life! All my years of working in theatre have paid off. I can put on a very brave front. Alex and I got directions to the church from my pal Nicola and started driving up a mountain. I prayed Silva would make it up the hills.
Gulp, I wasn’t kidding about the whirling and twirling narrow roads. Shit, I had to keep smiling while what seemed like a donkey path was taking us up higher and higher. I couldn’t even take my eyes off the road to look at the fluttering silver green leaves of the olive trees that covered the hillside. We followed the directions — I swear we did — but somehow were climbing closer to our celestial forbearers than I was super comfortable with. Little Silva started coughing. (No, please don’t stall out.) I drove up in a straining first gear. Alex was the force that kept me going. Wending my way up and up to certain death by careening around a curve and off a cliff, I was scared shitless.
Alex kept saying “I feel it — we are almost there — this is right.” We kept peering left — Nicola said we couldn’t miss it – on the left just past the old fountain. Which old fahkackata fountain? We passed a ton of old fountains. Fountains that were divided into basins so you could do laundry. Fountains that were pipes coming out of rock. Fountains festooned with “Don’t Drink This Water” signs.
“Stop the car. Stop the car!” Alex shouted. “I see horses. Maybe some people role-play contadini and ride their horses up here.”
What a great and charming idea! Then I noticed that further up there was a line of parked cars. We must be here! Remembering that Nicola said to flip the car around and park pointed down the hill, I held my breath, closed my eyes and managed to turn around without pummeling us down the cliff. It was a veritable cliff — road, no ditch, six inches of grass and drop to your death. I thanked Silva for being the wee car that it was.
We walked up the mountain closer to the horses. Lots of people were gathering around and heading up towards a tent.
“Auntie M, you said it was a cute church,” said Alex, “this looks like a revival tent.” “
Maybe they put a tent up for overflow?”
Then we saw the cows — lots of cows. Big giant white cows festooned with bells were mooing and eating. Suddenly it hit us — it was a pagan cow worshipping ritual, or a country cow show and sale. Actually, it was more like a cow beauty pageant complete with an old Bob Barker Miss America MC type announcing the qualities of the candidates. The set up reminded us of a horse show. The show ring was near an announcer’s platform. There were ribbons and trophies everywhere. These giant white cows, that graze in the mountains, were brushed and dressed for success. The owners, or trainers, moved them along like champions. Sadly, we were so enamored with our find that I didn’t pull out my handy pad and take important notes — like who sponsored it and where the hell we were.
Alex scrambled up and sat on a fence to get closer to the action. I wandered around to feel the sense of community. This whirling road may just have landed us where that lonely shepherd had started his airborne journey. We were definitely in a grazing country . ..
Cars, Castles, Cows, and Chaos by Midge Guerrera, 120 pages, $14.99. The Furious Reader.
Presentation by Guerrera and the book’s illustrator, Janet Cantore Watson, Rossi’s Bar and Grill, 2110 Whitehorse Mercerville Road, Hamilton, April 27, 6 p.m. 609-890-2004.
Midge Guerrera,
