107. If These Walls Could Talk

It has always been a source of amusement in our household that my father grew up in two houses just a few blocks apart. The first was in the “downtown” area of Gaeta, where people lived in cramped quarters on narrow streets.

In the summer, though, the family would move ten minutes away to the “country,” to an airy house with a front patio, a garden, and lemon trees that my father would climb with a book in hand to while away the afternoon lost in a novel.  As time passed, the whole family moved up to Rome for their careers, but their summers would always be spent in the country house in Gaeta.

Knowing that, realistically, he would never use the house once he moved to America, my father sold his share to his cousin Tonino, with whom he grew up like a brother. Tonino, and then his children and grandchildren, have summered there; in all, there were five generations who’ve lived there, spanning nearly 100 years. When I went to Gaeta with my own family, this is where we would all convene.

In a previous post, I wrote about finding a cache of old family photos when cleaning out a closet. Imagine finding a photo of my great-grandfather, sitting on that very same front patio where I’ve sat with my own children.

Imagine finding a photo of my father as a teenager, with cousin Tonino, his Aunt Clara and his grandfather.

My grandmother is not in the picture; she had passed away by then in one of the great flu pandemics.

Of course, I know that houses are not living, breathing entities, but they don’t feel inanimate, either. The special ones feel like they’ve had a leading role in the story, watching time pass, seeing loved ones come and go. When I’m at that summer house, I am mindful that I could be sitting in the exact same spot as my father did, 80 years ago. I have so many questions I would ask those walls, so many stories I would want to hear, if I only could.