The book release

A couple of weeks ago there was a festa in Colmurano celebrating the 140^th anniversary of the local events committee (if I understood Ornella and Maurizio correctly, which is a 50:50 shot). Aside from anything, 140 years for a local organization is quite something, and is starting to approach the nature of “tradition”, at least in the youthful fields of my heritage.

In any event, everyone (apparently) was there, including the bishop that Colmurano’s parish falls under, the president of Macerata province, a 92-year-old from Sicily (who made the trip especially), and an apparently well-known 82-year-old actor from Rome.

It was also the official release date for a book on the life of one Don Quirico, a priest who served Colmurano for some 50 years just over a half-century ago.

This is all significant (in a way) because I was asked to take photos for the book about 2 months ago. They needed one photo of Colmurano, but they were so pleased with my work they selected 4, and asked me back to take more photos inside the local church, 3 of which are also in the book.

And as a result, Ornella (who got me the assignment in the first place) made sure I knew about the ceremony.

Scheduled to start at 4:30, we arrived “early” at 4:45, only to find that we were still 45 minutes premature. Pranzo (lunch), it appears, had “run a little long.” However, this provided an unanticipated opportunity for entertainment, watching the passing parade as we waited outside the church for the proceedings to begin.

First up was a disheveled woman dressed in black and wearing slippers, shuffling up through the piazza. My first thought was that she’d taken herself off the drip at the rehab center and escaped, only to be drawn like a moth to the flame of a human gathering. I feel dreadful saying this, but she had the appearance of an old hag. She sauntered over to the banner-bearers in front of the church, all dressed in black with a grey sash, clearly with some office to perform. They greeted her warmly and gave her a sash to put on. So much for my ability to call it with even the remotest accuracy – such is the Catholic sisterhood.

All around, too, a gaggle of women thronged, many of them capably “filling” their outfits in a way that their designers would have probably deemed “ambitious”. In particular, one might say that the upper realms of their ensembles were distinctly challenged in containing their wearer’s contents. This is by no means intended to imply any degree of unattractiveness – on the contrary, my attention was immediately captured and held a willing prisoner.

What was intriguing, however, is that they then strolled into church. With my colonial upbringing in what I would have deemed an average Presbyterian congregation, I had always associated modesty with churchgoing attire. But not here, apparently. It seems that we’ve got it all wrong – church is just another event of the calendar, like the daily coffee at the bar, or Sunday lunch. And after all, when you’re out and about, why wouldn’t you want to catch the eye?

Anyway, finally things caught up and we ambled in, leaning against the back wall in a standing room only church. Emblazoned front and center was a large picture of Colmurano with said priest superimposed on it – “That’s my picture”, I thought, enlarged rather well. (Strangely enough, that one isn’t in the book – it’s the best of the lot.)

Then came the speeches. We didn’t understand anything. I’m not sure it mattered. People wandered in and out as with any Italian function. Some, dressed to the nines for the occasion, never even made it inside the church, lingering instead in the piazza outside, talking over the drone from inside being piped out to them. By the third speech we were done, and left - the Italian proclivity for one of their passions (talking) on this occasion for us eclipsed another of their famous passions (one that we wholly embrace) that would no doubt have followed ... eating. I wonder what we missed.

The picture that never made it ...