{"id":137,"date":"2011-11-30T14:33:08","date_gmt":"2011-11-30T14:33:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=137"},"modified":"2011-12-04T17:27:52","modified_gmt":"2011-12-04T17:27:52","slug":"a-story-from-natalina","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=137","title":{"rendered":"A story from Natalina"},"content":{"rendered":"

My husband’s mother, \u00a0Natalina \u00a0(her obligatory name, \u00a0as she came into this world on Christmas day, \u00a0Natale) \u00a0 was an exemplary \u00a0migghieruh verrnallese*<\/em>. \u00a0 \u00a0She worked most of her life as an expert seamstress, \u00a0as well as carrying out all the necessary activities needed to live a dignified life \u00a0in a rural economy. \u00a0Putting food by, keeping a constant display of clean clothing strung across the terrazza, visiting with living neighbors in town \u00a0and \u00a0deceased relatives at the\u00a0cimitero<\/em>; \u00a0hers was a simple but full existence. \u00a0 I fondly remember her daily phone calls, \u00a0asking me timidly if I could use “two” of some prepared vegetable or entree, \u00a0offered in order to round out my meager American lunch offerings \u00a0for my husband: \u00a0 \u00a0her only son. \u00a0 I was always happy to oblige. \u00a0 She made the best wild chicory I ever ate—–the kind that has to be gathered by someone rising early enough to beat the goats to the fields—– and I miss it now that she is gone. \u00a0 \u00a0Her travels, which were very few, once took her as far away as Rome, where she went for her honeymoon trip by train shortly after the war. \u00a0 \u00a0It was the greatest \u00a0distance she ever traveled away from her home. \u00a0 Our swallow-like \u00a0habit of flying back and forth over the Atlantic must have seemed wondrous to her.<\/p>\n

Of course a lifetime of living in a small town allowed her to absorb a repertoire of stories. \u00a0 \u00a0These were always delivered in hushed tones, \u00a0at times when we were alone and otherwise unencumbered by those who might have interrupted the telling, or suggested \u00a0that facts be modified. \u00a0 I have since had confirmation from others that the stories are true, although each person has his or her own particular version, \u00a0embellished by additions from the grapevine.<\/p>\n

She told me about a woman who, many years ago, gave birth to twins. \u00a0 Obviously in those days, no ultrasound alerted the mother that she would have two new babies instead of one, giving her time to adjust mentally to the situation. \u00a0 The babies arrived suddenly and were a \u00a0surprise to the family, and not entirely a pleasant one in those times of meager living standards. \u00a0 The new mother just could not bring herself to feel maternal love for one of the twin boys in any way, \u00a0 or bring herself to care for him. \u00a0 \u00a0She nursed and coddled one \u00a0twin, bonding with it thoroughly while ignoring the cries of the other. \u00a0It was a total refusal to recognize the existence of the second unexpected baby. \u00a0 While the family went out to their work in the fields, she would stash the poor thing away in a cupboard \u00a0so as not to be bothered with it. ( In Natalina’s version this cupboard became a niche, which to me added a semi-religious aspect to the story, and \u00a0my mental illustration was icon-like, with a baby huddled in a Gothic arch with a gold background.) \u00a0 I always wonder what the rest of the family thought while this was happening, or whether they asked themselves why only one twin thrived. \u00a0 I suspect that some remnant of an idea \u00a0from ancient times, the possibility \u00a0of exposing an unwanted \u00a0infant to the elements, \u00a0might still have lurked in her mind. \u00a0 She would never \u00a0be guilty of anything as drastic as infanticide, \u00a0 but the power of neglect would carry out her wishes indirectly.<\/p>\n

One evening, when the whimpers of the infant again reminded the mother that it was still a problem for her, she opened the cupboard to see a horrific sight. \u00a0The baby had been discovered \u00a0in its dark \u00a0recess by the \u00a0other occupants, mice. \u00a0They had begun to gnaw away at the baby’s nose, and had consumed a significant part of it. \u00a0 I imagine that this was the day that her family recognized the mother as being infanticidal, \u00a0and the baby was immediately removed from her and given to relatives to raise. \u00a0 I know that both babies grew up and are still living. \u00a0 \u00a0Perhaps not surprisingly, \u00a0the nurtured twin has remained in Bernalda, \u00a0while the neglected one has lived most of his life up in the north of Italy. \u00a0 I have a special hope that the second \u00a0man has been \u00a0successful and happy.<\/p>\n

I cannot imagine \u00a0living with these kinds of profound psychological wounds, especially the kind that are accompanied by physical scars. \u00a0 The \u00a0members of the family in which these events occurred \u00a0have all suffered, \u00a0more so in a small town where the story is well-known and often repeated. \u00a0 Another account \u00a0from over a century ago tells of a mother who chose a more direct route to ridding herself of her offspring, beheading the baby on the chopping block with an ax. \u00a0 \u00a0 It bears observing that the clinical definition \u00a0of postpartum depression may be relatively new, \u00a0but the concept is as old as the hills.<\/p>\n

I am sorry that my mother-in-law is no longer around, and I sometimes wonder how many stories she might have given to me if she had had more time. \u00a0It is a powerful incentive to remember that a story left untold is a story lost. \u00a0 Natalina lives on for me in hers.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

“Castello di Oriolo” \u00a0mixed media on board, 2010<\/p>\n

* \u00a0dialect: \u00a0“Bernaldan wife,” \u00a0 (Italian: \u00a0moglie Bernaldese<\/em>)<\/p>\n

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