How To Burlap Duck Decoys

The culture of survival

In a world where the "winners" are the masters of our destinies and our lives, that is if the "losers" at heart.
He left at age 20 from Delianuova but without the cardboard suitcase with a cultural baggage. With
intention not looked back. I saw my defeat in that country. That place for me and those people were the ugliness of my life. Every memory, every place and every gesture was my defeat. Twenty years
lost. So it feels when one has to go. Leave everything. I arrived at Pavia University
young and enthusiastic. Made wonderful place for young people and culture. Always wanted a world where you could discuss all you wanted without fear.
I'm here this is my world. I was young, full of life and outlook. Beautifully
pastor appealed to me. Where did you leave the sheep?. "How long is the life of shepherds in the Aspromonte. An enlightened world and diverse culture and origin. Yet the burden of Aspromonte never left you in that world different from mine, where intelligence is the prince. I learned that it is not. Shoot I was wrong to be born. All that remained of my previous life was a keeper of the Aspromonte. My previous life had been wiped out. He began to remove all the pieces.
These are the moments that can make you react or shoulder.
The ultimate solution was the most appetizing. Sure I think about how to start.
One thing remained, and remains, a phrase lodged in the depths of my brain "Meiju who go to the TIA and fance Spisa. Phrase repeated ad nauseam by my parents. Sounding phrase is always trying to improve in life. Do not ever disheartened "by chjiu scuru menzanotti no veni mai"
course did not lack the courage nor the baggage of life. But even more humility and dignity of poor people. To build a house you need good foundations.
Years later I think about those moments. There was a discontinuity, as I thought, but a continuation of the previous life of the same. Emigrating, although for me it was a migration of luxury, you lose a part of themselves, and with history, in a world that is not ours. A world where, he said a lady who emigrated, you have to do the double of another place where you live. One to be accepted and the other to perform your normal duties. So in these situations, bow your head and move on.
Dignity the losers have always been the spring that has overcome any obstacle.
My culture that once I removed is returning to the surface.
Not long ago I made an exam for one of our older fellow villager said, "nui ndi ndi Jimmu trovammu Bentu and i ja". He found peace, but the price was superhuman to be able to integrate into a culture different from ours.
I think back to when I left and I finally signed un'armistizio my past.
I think of all the elderly with fingers gnarled and bent, I think of our elderly with the serene face also with broken bones from work and say these people have built and spread a culture of healthy and strong rule of law, solidarity and moral principles. People poor but a great knowledge of life. People who lowered his head but was always able to pass the best of our culture. Without work, persistence and seriousness in their choices. Not defeated but victorious because they have instilled in us a great desire to "go cu u mejiu the TIA and to fance Spisa.

Looking In Full Mirror

Don Gaetano Villivà

To a great person of our time, humble in the midst of the humble.

Villivà Don Gaetano, who was born in Newfoundland (RC). The

05/05/1946, from Santa Giorgia came to our parish Paracorio SMAssunta as treasurer.
On November 20, 1952 he was appointed pastor at our church.
died April 2, 1981 at Delianuova.

A brief biographical history of a great man.

"you became a communist," he said, when a university student, I found him on top of the staircase at the front door of the church. It was his custom to stand there before the mass.
gruff man, by means brisk but always with a smile on the lips.
historical memory of our neighborhood and secrets in the confessional.
Again with the black robe and his white collar. An indefinite amount of buttons that still remains a mystery to me as we put to button in the morning.
has grown many generations, including mine, with reproaches, to flip a few times but always happy next to us.
It 'was one of the men honest and serious in my life I have come across. A fortune. Always with a handkerchief in his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, which was always plentiful, especially during the processions. Mostly
winter evenings and in other seasons as we were in the oratory, there was a large room where the ping-pong and table football. Next to the room was his lodging. In our exuberance, typical of children and teenagers, we produced a deafening chaos. They were the few times I came to silence. He understood our desire to have fun. When it was because we passed the limits. Always arrived with his black robe, a few words but the mere presence was enough, and all in silence. We had a huge respect for him.
His harvest were the mirror of his person, straightforward, a few words and great humanity without being redundant. They were a pleasure their brevity, but of great intensity. His
500 white, always clean, rarely used except to go to school or to other committees outside the country. I've never had as a teacher and this is a bit 'I'm sorry. From altar boy I remember the endless hours of processions, particularly that of the Assumption on August 15. We lined up to 2 kids, we were in a lot behind him and watched our order and at the same time fulfill their duties as a priest in a function. Some of us had in his pocket to munch on something, given the slow pace and tempo of the procession, he smiled and pretended nothing.
We had nothing but it was a pleasure to have him as pastor. Passover was the happiest day for us altar boys. We all gave us the paschal lamb of marzipan. It was the greatest gift. A delicacy that many of us could not afford, was the "gift". The only one I could have in our poverty. Bring quell'agnello home was like having a trophy.
He was never flashy, never not overflowing, those who commanded respect just by the mere presence.
Catholic action, living, composed by so many people behind the scenes and our Don Villivà watched, as well as the daily lives of us all. From
altar boys in the sacristy was a perennial struggle to those of us who appropriates the bell. Disputes between children, sedated, but without intervening on our quarrels. There were no rich or poor for him there were only men.
There are no words to describe a man who was for us, with our parents, a moral guide.
Great in its simplicity, sweet and surly in his being generous with those who did not. He helped many poor people economically, with much reserve, in the silence like the great men.
E 'was a part of our life, our secrets in the confessional.
A man who does not forget and that will remain within us.