The other day I received a package from my sister.  Among her gifts was a small, well used book.  Engraved on the dark green, hardbound cover is a beautiful portrait of the Virgin Mary, standing on the moon with her feet crushing the head of the serpent.  Translated into English, the title is The Pious Girl. On the flyleaf, Vigano’ Purissima di Nibionno is handwritten in old-fashioned writing. The book, dated 1863, was obviously well loved. Purissima was my father’s grandmother. I never met her, but I know her through my father’s memories.

She was a very small, red-haired dynamo, who started her day with the 5:00 am Mass. She is listed as “master weaver” in the parish register where she was Baptized, received First Communion, was confirmed was married, and had her babies baptized. She planted her own flax, gathered it, spun it and wove it, to make linen sheets, towels and shirts for her family.  She raised her children, helped her husband in the wine shop where, on the second storey she kept two rooms for travelers. After everyone went to bed, she would mend her family’s clothes and sleep perhaps five hours a night.

She is buried in the cemetery of Nibionno, next to her husband and one of her daughters who died in her 20’s. Close by is the chapel where my dad is buried next to his parents, his aunt, his brothers and all his sisters in law, and where my mother will join him. All around are relatives and friends. In a town not too far away is the cemetery where my mother’s family waits for the second coming of Christ.

Going to visit our relatives at the cemetery is as common as going to visit those who are living. As a child, I remember walking past by the cemetery on our way to daily Mass; on the way back we always visited grandma’s tomb: through the front gates, straight on the main avenue: a marble angel on a tomb here; a bronze rock climber further on; a pieta’ to the right; then turning off to the left, where white-marble organ pipes mark the tomb of our aunt’s father. Finally, here we are: nonna’s face smiling at us from the black granite block, surrounded by a small marigold garden, that marks her resting place. When we brought flowers, we’d go to the fountain to wash the vase and replace the old water; we made sure that the granite was clean and the small lantern had a fresh candle. A big gold cross etched in the stone divided her side of the tomb from the side where nonno eventually would join her. After a few prayers for her soul, we said goodbye and left until the next day.

The cemeteries of small Italian towns are happy places, where death is not frightening and the dead seem still present. The paths are marked by white pebbles, the tombs are surrounded by little gardens, and when the gates are open there is always someone visiting, cleaning, gardening. You can always tell those whose relatives are all dead or moved away, because the tombs are not as well kept; often the relatives of their neighbors simply “adopt” them. I know that when we passed one of the lonely tombs, we would stop and say a prayer.

One day, my mother went to the cemetery with a friend and her five-year-old son, Giorgino. Her friend’s father had lived with the family, and had died recently. Giorgino and his grandfather (nonno) were great buddies. So, the little boy helped as the two women cleaned the tomb, replaced the flowers, lit the little lantern and said a prayer. Then, when they were saying goodbye, Giorgino stooped close to the portrait of his grandfather and, with a conspirator’s whisper told him: “Nonno, tomorrow I’ll bring you ice cream.” After all, Giorgino knew very well that his grandfather’s soul was still living. Flowers are all well and good, but what’s better than ice cream on a hot summer day!

Then my sister told me that last week she read that the city council of the small town of Lugo di Romagna, decided that their cemetery should reflect the changing times. Therefore, from now on, the town’s cemetery monuments will be prohibited: all religious signs banned. No more crosses, Jesus, angels, saints. No more little gardens. Everyone will have a simple marker with names, dates of birth and death. No epitaphs, nothing more. I hope that this is an isolated aberration of silly folks. But, as I look around the world, I realize that stupidity is contagious. If the city councils of the small towns where my dear ones, from Bisnonna (Greatgrandmother) Marcellina to Bisnonna Purissima follow suit, how am I ever going to find my way through the little white-pebbled paths? Where will they be, the white-marble organ pipes of Giuseppe Zelioli’s tomb, that mark the turn to nonno Gianni’s and nonna Ester’s?

God loves variety: just look at the flowers all around us: no two are alike! Look at the different gifts that He bestowed on all of us: no duplications anywhere!  But civil authority likes sameness: the Cross is “dangerous” competition. As we allow our governments to take more and more control over our lives, I shudder to think what our world will look like: pretty gray and bleak I’d say! So much for change!