The first vivid memory of my life took place, logically enough, in the little village in the Alps where, during our summer vacations, my grandfather’s cabin sheltered our night and rainy days. At all other times, no one could keep us inside.

Here I was, almost four-years old, walking with my aunt and cousin on the rough trail that brought us to nonno’s cabin. I insisted on carrying part of my luggage.  Emerging from the trees, some 20 minutes later, we finally saw the little house, shining white, halfway down the valley. The slope was covered in tall, green grass, dotted with flowers and the Alps were all around us.  The picture still lives in my mind: I was so overwhelmed that I dropped whatever I was carrying, threw myself on the ground and started rolling downhill, laughing. Nothing can ever compare, in my mind, with the beauty of that tiny village (now much larger, alas).  Talking with my younger siblings, our summers at Piani Resinelli hold just such a joyful memory in our hearts.

Why? What was so special about it? It was Its simplicity; the untouched beauty that God lavished on its valleys, its woods, its mountains. As I said before, we had to go to the spring every morning to fetch drinking water. The walk was longish, but no one complained. At the top of the valley was the first rest stop: a huge patch of wild raspberries. Then, through the woods we would search for mushrooms, and we kept track of the ripening blueberries. Out of the woods the wild strawberries hid under their leaves.  Finally the fountain, where the icy-cold water gushing from the bones of the mountains was captured by pipes behind a tall, wide fountain, whose huge cement wall bore St. Francis’ hymn in brown letters: “All praise be Yours, my Lord, through Sister Water, so useful, precious and pure.” Who could be bored?

But our greatest entertainment was Lea, the cattle dog of our neighboring dairy farmer, whose Brown-Alpine cows spent most of the year at lower altitude and, come summer, walked several miles uphill to feast on the mountain grasses, as they roamed through everyone’s unfenced properties. Lea was “the herd’s enforcer,” and our brother Massimo’s all-time favorite.  She was not the sort of dog that you’d notice for her beauty. Her zig-zag family tree must have connected somewhere with the Australian shepherd: longish hair of mixed colors, mid-size, nothing remarkable…

… until you saw her in action. Late afternoon, here come the cows: bells ringing, pelting down the cobbled, fenced lane that led to the water tubs. And here comes the herdsman with Lea. I can still see Massimo’s huge grin as he watched the dog restore calm and order at the whistled commands of her master. Dashing through stampeding hooves, nipping at one foreleg here, snarling at a truant there, she always managed to force those big beasts to form an orderly single file, and never got kicked! How about the nasty bull? Piece of cake. Never saw anyone move as fast as Lea could. Lea, that intelligent, obedient dog could manage some 24 cows all by herself. How Massimo would laugh in sheer delight at some of her more miraculous feats!  At a safe distance, we almost never missed the show, and never tired of it. You know what? It just hit me that we did not have a single toy at nonno’s cabin!

Fast forward to when my children were young.  They did have toys, but they’d rather play with anything else. Son would be hunting for bugs and other slimy things. Marie used her father’s scraps of wood to “build” baby bunny traps. I can still see her, five-years old, crouching at the back door with the contraption that she glued together and holding the string that held the “door” open, hoping that a baby cottontail, plentiful in the New Mexican desert, would reach for the “bait” (grass.) She never did catch anything, but she never lost hope. The youngest loved pots and pans. She invariably sat in the kitchen when I was cooking, opening the bottom cabinets, removing every container, pot and lid, and having a grand-old time. Both girls, when a bit older, “helped” me cook. Again, no toys involved here. I remember a friend complaining that her little daughter’s favorite toy was the trash can. That’s right. Unless someone was watchful, she’d dive into it and pull everything out. Her nickname? “Greta Garbage.”

Fast forward some more years: a Baptism ceremony at Holy Trinity Parish. Every time that I attend, I look at those beautiful, lovable and innocent babies, and pray: “Dear God, give their parents the wisdom to raise them according to Your plan. Keep their lives simple. Help mom and dad understand that this wonderful creature that You gave them, and who has been ransomed from eternal death by the sacrifice of Your Son’s death on the cross belongs to You. Please, please, dear God, help their parents understand that their children need them more than the stuff they can buy for them, and that time spent with mom and dad brings greater happiness than the fanciest of toys. Remind them that they need to be faithful to the Sacraments. And help us, who witness their entry into the Church, realize that all of us have the sacred duty to show them, by our example and encouragement, to know and love You. Amen.”