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Bridges Through Time
by Linda McNine
Ratings:
59 pages45 minutes
Summary
Italy has a blend of ancient and modern cultures. This story is narrated by a resident of a small village in Northern Italy. It is a story that blends the old with the new. It is a memoir of a relationship that evolved over the years. Modern images of the village are interspersed through-out the narrative, while the words weave a story of the past that bridges it with the present.
Publisher: Linda McNineReleased: Nov 23, 2012ISBN: 9781301041060Format: book
Book Preview
Bridges Through Time - Linda McNine
Italy
This is my birthplace.
This is where I grew up.
This is my school.
This is where I exercise.
This is my playground.
This is where my children were born
and raised
This is where I come for comfort.
This is where my ancestors lived
and died.
This is where I come to think.
This is where my memories are.
This is my home.
This is where I am.
This is where I want to be.
This is where I live.
I have not always lived in my home. Like many others, I needed to stretch my legs, go, and see the world to experience life. I carried nothing with me. My mother cried when I was leaving and like many fathers, my father was stoic and silent. He did not wish me well. He should have been happy. There was one less mouth to feed, one less young-un’ around to bring up. Nevertheless, no, he said not one word, gave not one piece of advice, but had a knowing smile on his face. Out I went into the wide-open world, alone.
I was not alone for long. I joined my young friends and for many weeks, spent most of my time meandering in the neighborhood in which I was staying. I was on the prowl for who knows what. It was exciting for a time, but I grew tired of it and began wanting to go home and settle down. I had not met anyone who meant anything to me and soon found myself wanting, no needing, to listen to those old stories my father often told about the old days. When I was a young sprig, I grew bored of those life lessons,
those remembrances of the past, things he remembered and stories he had learned as a lad; but as I grew older and perhaps wiser, I began changing and my yearning grew and grew.
I had not traveled very far, just a short distance up the road through old town.
I lived near the old castle. I remember my father’s stories about life in the castle, when he was young, but now the roof had fallen in and the winter’s wind turned my blood into ice flows. Food was scarce probably because there were so many of my so-called friends with voracious appetites and no, they did not want to share, as my Mother would have wanted all of us to do had I been home. We got into scraps, just for a bite of bread and soon my lean body became skeletal, with my bones appearing to jut out at odd angles.
After a terrifying fight with a newcomer to the castle who was visiting from a nearby village, I decided I had enough. With my tail between my legs, I started the journey home. It seemed to take forever, perhaps because I was so eager. I was welcomed home by the friends I had left behind, by my loving mother, brothers, and sisters who had grown considerably since I was gone (with the additional portion of food, I did not consume) and yes, by my father. He had been silent when I left but not so when I came home. He told me of his jaunt to the outside world, so many years ago, when his blood was coursing through his young body, and he told me that he understood why I needed to go, but he was glad I came back. He gave me a sincere smile of acceptance or understanding.
That night, feeling safe in my home, I cuddled up with my brothers and sisters deep in the fresh hay stored above the animal stalls and asked my Dad to tell us about the old days. I listened well.
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