Finders Keepers

If you walked into a diner and sat at a table and found an abandoned $300 pair of sunglasses on the windowsill, what would you do?  Would you think someone left them behind and probably wouldn’t come back for them?  Would you take them?

The saying “Finders keepers, losers weepers” basically means that if a person finds anything that is not his, he gets to keep it and he who lost it shall weep.  As young children, this seemed to be an unwritten law we endured when something was lost or found on the playground, neighborhood yard, or anywhere else.  All we had to do was chant this phrase and the found item miraculously became ours. 

Granted this system would not hold up in a court of law, but it was and still is the system that is practiced by many children.  Sometimes it holds up and sometimes it doesn’t.  It depends who is on the other side, whether they are bigger, stronger, or smarter.  Is it fair or right?  Of course not.

Fast forward to situations involving lost items more expensive than a kickball, a bracelet, or baseball card.  You accidentally leave behind a $300 pair of sunglasses in a local diner.  You return two hours later and they are gone. Your Smartphone falls from your pocket in a store and when you backtrack to look for it, it is not in the lost and found.  Your wallet falls from your hands as you maneuver grocery bags into your car.  When you return to the parking spot an hour later, there is no wallet. 

As we grow up, thankfully most of us learn that some things we did and said on the playground were immature and wrong. So we have to ask ourselves why that ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’ mentality stays with some people.  You should be able to return to retrieve your sunglasses, phone, or wallet if you accidentally left it behind.  So why do people take things that don’t belong to them?

You may answer that perhaps the person who took your item was poor and needed it. Or perhaps you are thinking that if someone is careless enough to leave something of value behind, then they deserve to have it taken.  Really?  Everyone makes mistakes.  If some people have difficulty keeping track of their belongings, that doesn’t mean someone else has the right to them.  Just because something was found in a public place does not give someone permission to take what is not his.

Looking at it from the other side, what if you are the one who found that $300 pair of sunglasses or that brand new Smartphone?  Would you proclaim, ‘This is my lucky day!’ as you take the item and move on?  Would you rationalize that it is only fair, because someone else took something of yours one time…  This sounds like immature playground mentality to me.

At the airport in Italy a week ago, I found a wallet on a bench by the security screening area.  Someone must have lost it while sitting and putting his shoes back on.  Perhaps it fell from his pocket.  I didn’t want to look inside because if someone was watching, my action might be mistaken for me taking money from it.  I immediately gave the wallet to an airport security worker.  As I turned to continue on my way, I saw him pass it off to another security worker.  I said to my son that I hope they were going to make an attempt to find the man before his flight leaves and not just take the money.  My son said I had to have faith that there were still a lot of honest people in the world.  After all, hadn’t I just done the right thing?

I guess my faith in people doing the right thing gets challenged when I hear of so many people leaving things behind that aren’t found when they go to retrieve them.  It boils down to knowing right from wrong; being brought up with morals, so that even when you are on the playground wanting to chant that phrase and keep the baseball card you found, you don’t.

A Night in Santa Croce del Sannio for Sagra della Scamorza

A sagra is, to a certain degree, the Italian equivalent of a local fair, usually celebrating a certain food.  Attending a sagra is a great way to get the local flavor of Italian country life.  Sagre (plural) are held from spring through October, usually on weekends. They are hosted in small villages, generally to raise money for a cause.  There is often a market, carnival rides or games for kids, music, and of course the featured food, which is cooked by people from the village.  Simply served on plastic plates, visitors and locals sit at communal tables in the main piazza. 

I was fortunate to have the opportunity to attend the Sagra della Scamorza (Feast of Mozzarella) last night in Santa Croce del Sannio in southern Italy.  Santa Croce del Sannio is a small village that today has a population of 991 people.  My grandfather was born in this village, although the population at that time was closer to 10,000 inhabitants.  This was my third visit to Santa Croce, a village that holds a special place in my heart.

We arrived about 6:30 pm and started with a visit to see my great-aunt.  After that, the main street with the piazza was beginning to show signs of a successful sagra.  Some booths were set up with games for children, a few vendors were selling items to benefit the cause, and some sweet snacks lined both sides of the street. 

At the end of the road by my great aunt’s house there is a bar, which in Italy can be many things.  This one served both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, coffee, and many flavors of delicious gelato.  It had lots of chairs and tables outside, but the bar was fairly empty at this early hour of the evening.  I saw the familiar face of a man standing outside the bar.  It was Tito, the owner, who I had met two years ago on my last trip to Santa Croce del Sannio.  Tito spoke great English and also owned a gift shop.  We enjoyed his company two years ago and I had kept in contact with annual Christmas greetings.  Tito spends time in New York too, where he has a second house.  I went up and reintroduced myself.  He remembered me well and invited us in for a drink.  I asked him if his gift shop was open because I wanted to buy a few gifts from the village for some people back home.  He said it would be open tomorrow and asked us how long we would be in Santa Croce.  When I told him only a few hours this year and not a few nights like last time, he went inside to get his wife to open the gift shop for us.  Within 3 minutes we were inside the shop, which was a few doors up the road.  There was not a moment’s hesitation on his part to do this.  I found four items I wanted to purchase, and then I went back outside and walked a little further down the same street. 

Two years ago I also was introduced to a man named Luigi who owned Luigi’s Market.  His last name is DiGiuseppe, like my maiden name.  My cousin had introduced us two years ago and said that we were likely distant cousins but not sure of the connection.  I wanted to ask Luigi from which line of DiGiuseppes he was descended.  Over the last two years much research had been done to update our family tree.  When I walked to the market, it was open and Luigi was standing outside.  I reintroduced myself to him.  He spoke only fast Italian but I relayed my questions.  It became clear that we are related as we thought; his great-grandfather and my great-grandfather were brothers.  He wrote down a little information for me for the tree, but said to have my cousin call him and he could relay more information at a better time.

Next, I rejoined my group of cousins, who were outside conversing with many friends they knew.  We noticed a long line of people waiting to buy food tickets.  A section of the walkway in front of the Municipio (town hall) was lined with rectangular tables with benches, all seemingly full with people of all ages.  We were a group of ten that night.  The men got in line for the tickets, and the women looked for tables with the help of the ‘kids’, ages 15-24.  Both groups took some time to accomplish their task, and coincidentally both were fulfilled within minutes of each other.

The first thing we ate was fresh scamorza cheese (similar to mozzarella) melted on the grill, served on a hard roll.  After enjoying that, we had calzones with melted cheese and prosciutto.  While eating, we contributed to the chatter that filled the piazza.  All the while, Italian music filled the street from end to end; first recorded instrumental music alone, then accompanied by young energetic male singer.  His truck, parked down the road, said ASCOLTARE E BALLARE  (listen and dance).  Luckily he had a great voice and he went from one local favorite song to the next. 

Before long, the main piazza was bursting with people.  Soon we gave up our table to the next hungry group and inched closer to the music. The singer’s equipment was set up in front of the central fountain in the square, covered by an old small arch.  By this time he was singing music that got about eight people up on their feet dancing.  It was a structured line dance with steps repeated throughout. It reminded me of being at an Italian wedding with traditional songs and dances.

My husband took my son for a 2-minute walk to the house where my grandfather was born, which is now abandoned.  I didn’t go this time because the road down to the house was steep, and if you are a regular reader of my posts, you know I recently had a total knee replacement.  As they stood in front of the house, two old men who lived around the corner heard them speaking English as they were taking their evening stroll.  They conversed through my son who speaks Italian and found out they knew my grandfather’s sister.  Since my grandfather left Italy when he was 17, they had never met him.  The men got very excited when they discovered that the foreigners they were speaking to had family ties to the house in front of them.  They conversed for about 15 minutes during which time Antonio invited them into his woodshop right around the corner, where he had an impressive collection of his own works.  Once they bid farewell to Antonio and Michele, my son described this experience as a parallel universe moment where two independent worlds intersected for one moment. 

As the evening wore on, we slowly worked our way back down to the beginning of the street where Tito’s bar was.  We found a table and two chairs available outside, and then slowly added one chair at a time as they became available, until we had well more than ten because at this point our group had grown in number.  Gelatos and drinks were purchased, English and Italian heard round the table, and we enjoyed the fresh cool evening air.  I was shocked when I looked at my watch to discover it was 1:00 am. 

At the end of the day, which it clearly was, I tried here to convey the atmosphere of the evening. The cool fresh air, the happiness of the moment, the slowness of the pace, the friendships seen…were all part of the evening.  Running into people I knew increased the sensation I had of feeling at home.  But words and photos alone cannot truly express what I felt in my heart.  Perhaps I lived here in another lifetime because I felt like I was home. 

Dancing to the music with the arch and fountain of the main piazza in the background.

Our son in front of the house where my grandfather was born.

Rows of tables where everyone enjoyed the scamorza.

Welcome Dinner in Italy

When you think of Italy, what comes to mind?  Beautiful scenery, the melodic language, the Renaissance, gorgeous ceramics, old churches, amazing architecture, limoncello, art, the autostrada (highway), very old buildings, leather, the Alps, more churches, the sea…?  I am sure many if not all these items come to mind, but admit it, the food would top your list.

After spending our first week on this trip touring in the North, we ate at several mediocre restaurants.  Granted we were in tourist spots in the lakes region and the Riviera, but as my son tried to put it in perspective for me, he said to think of it like being in the Adirondacks of New York.  In any case, yesterday we arrived at the home of my cousin, who is a doctor, and were treated to a wonderful ‘light’ supper starting around 8:00pm.  Focus on the word starting.  First came a big bowl of delicious fusilli pasta with a light homemade tomato sauce and fresh Parmesan.  After discussing truffles, my cousin fetched a big hunk of one made by a grateful patient, and he proceeded to grate some on top of the pasta. Naturally some homemade wine called Aglianico, typical from the area of Benevento, filled our glasses, given to him by another thankful patient.   Although I don’t really drink much any more, I could not pass up wine in Italy.  It was a smooth red that went down too easily.

Our bowls emptied quickly, and then came another clean dish, which we filled with scrumptious green olives, home made carciofi, bruschetta with eggplant and artichokes, cheese ­­­­with tartufo, fresh bread, and a salad with melt-in-your-mouth tomatoes.  They have a dressing here called aceto balsamico from Moderna.  You can put it on more than just the salad and we did.  It seemed to go well with many tastes.  While savoring all these amazing foods, a second bottle of wine was opened, and I partook even more. The expression is “Riempi il bicchier che è vuoto, vuota il bicchier che è pieno, non lo lasciar mai pieno non lo lasciar mai vuoto” which means when the glass is empty you fill it and when it is full, you empty it.  In other words, you always have to drink, therefore… the second bottle.  Just when we thought we were done, out came a plate of freshly cooked sausages to end the ‘light’ supper.

As we sat back and sighed with total contentment, out came a bowl of fresh fruit and an ice cream dessert with raspberries.  Naturally we needed something to drink with that, so a bottle of Grappa appeared and yes, it was homemade by yet another appreciative patient.  To accompany the Grappa for those of us not inclined to finish the meal with a 40% alcohol beverage, there was ­­­­Passito di Zibibbo from Sicilia.  Again, for me, the non-drinker, it was delicious and I enjoyed it quite a bit.

As my husband sliced up a fresh peach, it was suggested he drop it in his wine glass and let it sit for a bit.  This tradition I know from my father and grandparents.  After retrieving it with a fork, he enjoyed its sweet taste infused with wine flavor.  Our taste receptor cells had worked overtime and were now settling back to savor the entire experience.  Not only was there fantastic food, but the company of family, the exchange of Italian and English, and the laughter made the evening one for the books. 

As I sit here early in the morning, waiting for everyone else to awaken, I wonder what is in store for us today, not only for our taste buds, but also for our camera lenses and our souls.  In any case, I am grateful for my family in Italy, grateful because we are able to travel and be in the land of my roots, and grateful for the appreciative patients of my cousin.  Ciao for now!

We were totally involved in the meal, and so sorry to say I didn't take a photo of any of it! 

Mental Strength for Gymnastics

Since I have been glued to the television set this week, I thought it fitting and proper to talk about some aspect of the games.  If you know me, you could probably guess that I  would select gymnastics.  I started gymnastics in 5^th grade at Crompond Elementary School in Yorktown, NY.  After years in the sport and three different gymnastics summer camps during high school, I went on to be selected as one of eleven women to make the Cortland State gymnastics team.  After college, I returned to Yorktown to coach my alma mater, the Yorktown High School gymnastics team.  The sport is in my blood, and although I no longer practice the moves, I still remember my routines, and love to watch the sport.

I was an all-around gymnast, but balance beam was my favorite.  When I participated in gymnastics, the beam was not padded.  Other than that, the height and width remain the same.  What I have witnessed during Olympics gymnastics time and time again is that the beam can be the deal breaker.  It is the piece of equipment that is the easiest to fall off; there is no wiggle room for error.  Since the Olympic athletes are all trained and competent, it boils down to their mental state before and during their routines.

I would go through my routine and nail it time after time during practice, and that was all well and good, but the only thing that mattered was how I performed during the meet.  Many times I was very much in control, focused and determined.  But it did not take much to toy with my nerves.  It could have been a warm up where I didn’t hit all my moves well, or it could have been a rushed warm up because our bus was late arriving at the gym for an away meet.  It could have been the pressure of the gymnasts on the other team, or it could have been a day where I didn’t feel as flexible or as strong as usual. Most of the time I was in control of my mind and performed well.  But it is so easy to be off by one inch with the results being catastrophic, and I don’t only mean the points deducted from a fall.  What was scary for me was missing the beam and sustaining a big injury.  Thankfully, my biggest injury was a thigh size bruise…

The U.S. women’s team showed mental strength in London this week.  Yes, of course they had physical strength, but their mental strength was inspiring.  They had the capacity to put a mistake behind them and focus on the present. It is not easy to get back up after a fall and continue with confidence and grace. They showed that they could put disappointment aside and focus on the present and future.

Gymnastics is a very mental sport.  You must have complete confidence in your coach’s ability to teach and spot you through a difficult move and also the ability to execute that move in competition by yourself.  You have to have the mental capacity to remain tight every second of your routine or vault, never letting up; your mind cannot wander for a second.

As I watch the sport of women’s gymnastics grow, I am constantly in awe of how difficult the moves keep getting.  For me, front and back walkovers, one-armed cartwheels and no-arm forward rolls were the big moves with a front flip dismount.  The big big move done in sectionals by a select few was a single back handspring.  We were all in awe of the few girls who attempted to do one.  Now gymnasts do back handsprings on beam as a warm up.

Our mindset can and does affect us in so many ways.  Sports are no different, whether it is in the Olympic gym or a high school gym. This is true of many sports and gymnastics is no exception.

I remember this meet at SUNY Buffalo.  My mindset was on and so was my routine.