I have always dreamed about my ancestors and where they came from, I have imagined the wild sea bringing them to the shores of Sicily. From what we have gathered, Pasquale came from Palermo with his two daughters, Anna & Carmella. Anna was pregnant when she came to Santo Stefano and when she gave birth to Andrea she wrote "ignato" where the name of the father was to be. Still their short existence in S. Stefano remains something that still intrigues me. Each time I say my ancestors are from here, they ask for the name and I hear the same response..." no, never heard of them."
Their time here was short lived, maybe only from the 1700's until roughly the 1900's. So where are the rest of the Subbiondo's? Are we really such a small clan? How is it that this name has no remaing roots? We must have come from somewhere else...
This morning, I headed out before the family woke. I stopped by Bar Paradiso to grab a cappucino and a cornetto. The signora Sebastiana, warmly greeted me, here tired eyes full of love. As always, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and served me the very best cappuccino. She is so kind and loving. Sometimes I like to imagine that we are her favorite guests, but I know this isn't true. She simply has a big heart, and her personal goal is to make all of her guests happy. I tell her of my plans to visit the old cemetery and the sanctuary. "It's too far to go on foot, I can take you this afternoon."
I always feel so uncomfortable being offered such things. " Oh no signora! I can't ask you to do that. I don't want to be a burden."
"Please its no trouble..."
"Ok, then I will only go to the cemetery this morning and I will look forward to enjoying the sanctuary with you in the afternoon!" With my camera in hand, I headed up the long narrow streets of Santo Stefano toward cemitero veccio. As I made my way up the hill, the heat seemed to radiate up from the street. Sweat dripped down my forehead and even with my large sunday best hat, the heat of the early morning challenged me to push forward. My lungs filled with warm air and my knees reminded me that I was no longer 16 and trim. The usual aches and pains of age and fatigue filled my hips. I stopped and faced the sea. Across from the water I could see the Aeolian Islands, simple blue shaddows in a blue sky, I had never noticed them before. No camera could truly capture this sight and still I found myself snapping away.
What if my ancestors came from there? What if, they only said they came from Palermo but, instead came from the islands? My wild imagination envisioned them sailing across the narrow tyhrennian sea to the small town. As much as I feel myself drawn to these two places, could it be that my love of the water, my love of Santo Stefano and the Aeolian Islands is forever linked to these ancestors? It's a romantic fantasy to say the least, but what if? What if my inexplicable desire to be in these places is something transgenerational? The islands wer home to pirates, what if my ancestors were pirates...or better, escaping pirates?
As I climbed the hill, visions of them landing on the shore and walking the same streets filled my head. When I arrived at the cemetery, there were tears ( possible sweat) in my eyes. A cool breeze whisked through the trees and the gate creaked as I opened it. Beyond the cemetery, through the trees, I could still see the Islands. Isolated in time, I explored the tombs.
