Salt Lake City Map Free – Salt Lake City Subway Maps – Salt Lake City Metro Maps – Salt Lake City Map

Sounds, voices, the yelling, the names being shouted out loud, Salt Lake City refined my aptitude to listen, and when I was a grown-up I would distinguish the steps of friends who were about to do a serenade, of the women going to the fields, or of the travelling vendors Salt Lake City who had become motorized and went around selling brooms, roosters or chickens, Salt Lake City grapes and melons. The memory of these voices and of the sounds of the village, of the big church bells and the other less strong little bells whose ring summoned us to Mass or to school, for feasts and the breaking out of fires, for deaths and marriages, have always Salt Lake City been a great boon to me in my search for times lost.

Salt Lake City Map Free – Salt Lake City Subway Maps – Salt Lake City Metro Maps – Salt Lake City Map Photo Gallery

That clamour of steps, of human voices, that hotchpotch of noises is no longer available in today’s villages. Silence, not the silence one wishes for but the silence now associated with the emptying out of the villages of the Calabrian hinterland, the many departures from other larger locations nearby with a more abiding and more central history, is something we view with great poignancy, those of us who were born and raised there, in places that were thick with noises and sounds of all kinds, full of toil, happiness and life.

On Saturday evening, the day before the tinsmith would make his rounds in our village, my grandmother and my mother would review the condition of pots, pans and other copper paraphernalia. Often they would get up early, eager and careful, to ask for repairs where holes or dents had appeared. They would look out of the window and ask: “Hey tinsmith did you bring me my pot?” until the precious container made it back to the kitchen, nice and ready for use. I have quite a vivid memory of the tinsmith who came from the seacoast area, from Pizzo, and worked his way up towards Vallelonga and the inland area known as the Serre. His name was Ciccio, and he had an intense look, a musical voice, and a patience that never ended.

He listened, was used to it and seemed always resigned, in full accordance with the rites of selling, buying and bargaining, with the protests that went with them, the requests for discounts and credit on the part of the women. He acted as if he were upset and unremitting and then finally gave in. He would leave smiling, with his “Look, look, you’ll never see more beautiful pots! Your tinsmith is here!”

Related Post

Leave a Reply