To a great person of our time, humble in the midst of the humble.
Villivà Don Gaetano, who was born in Newfoundland (RC). The
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.
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.
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