We, the Coronado Scribes, consist of both professional and amateur writers. We have in common a desire to learn, by sharing our efforts and listening to other writers. We hold pressure-less sessions every Wednesday, at the Coronado Library conference room, starting at 1:30. Often we have guests who wish to just listen. They are welcome, and so are you.
Each week on eCoronado, we feature a different piece of prose or poetry produced by one of our writers. Please feel free to comment or ask questions in the comment section below.
La Strada Della Vitaby
Il mia nomee e Oliva Castellan (my name is Olivia Castellan). It is April 17th, 1929, in Valvasone, Italy. The cold, dark days of winter are finally over. Spring has arrived in her flowered dress, and the sun feels as warm as a loving caress. The newly plowed fields are the color of dark chocolate, and the scents all around me speak of new beginnings and earthly desires. Yet, my broken heart wants nothing to do with this glorious day. My eyes fill with tears of loss. Dreams of a life with the man I love are gone. My mother will not honor our marriage.
“I forbid you to marry Nando Braze,” she hisses. “He is poor with no hope of any future. He has nothing to offer you or your family.”
“Mama, I love him!”
“Don’t talk to me of love. There are consequences for women who disobey their families. You will do as I say or be disowned.”
Knowing I had little or no choice, I tell Nando my family’s decision. He leaves Valvasone a week later, to find better opportunities for himself. He says he will return with a fortune, and then we can marry. In my heart I know this will never happen, and know it is the last time I will ever see him. We share one last kiss, and he is gone. Now I have to pick up the threads of my life, and weave them into a different pattern.
With all these thoughts tumbling through my mind, I walk to Santa Lucia, the village Church. My family is waiting for me to meet them at Sunday mass. The dusty, narrow, lanes of the village are quiet, except for the barking of a dog and the crowing of one rooster. The old buildings bordering the lanes are made of grey stone. An occasional flower box tries to brighten the austerity of the shabby homes, but it makes little difference. Many of the windows and buildings are still shattered from the battles and bullets of World War I. Enemies and allies alike stormed through our village taking everything we owned, and ruining what they left behind. We were forced survive on animals God had not intended for humans to eat horses, cats, and even rats. Most of the families in Valvasone are recovering from this devastation. Most villagers are poor farmers, who rent land from the rich and noble. Or they are servants, as I am, working in their villas. We are little more than serfs living hand to mouth. The children of common villagers go to school for only a year or two, before they begin working the fields to help earn food and a little money. Many of our best, young men leave for other countries, with plans to send money home to their suffering families.
At least God has spared our church from destruction. It still stands in the center of the plaza with its marble fountain spouting a rainbow of water. The church is built from the same grey stone as the other buildings in Valvasone, but the inside is lustrous with the glow of the stained glass windows. The colors flood the altar and pews with the warmth of reds and yellows and the coolness of greens and blues. I walk in and sit with my mother, father, and two brothers.
Two pews ahead of us sits Giuseppe Pistel. A handsome man with straight dark hair and eyes a shade of blue so pale they look like silver ice. Not a tall man, but his body is as thick and strong as a bull’s. One can see he is no stranger to hard work. He is healthy and vigorous. I know him as the widower, who has returned to Valvasone after his wife’s sudden death in America. Beside him sit his three young children. The oldest one cannot be more than six years old. Maddona, (Mother of God) what beautiful children!
