To Castelmezzano Con Amore by Col. Alfred Abbott

Col. Alfred Abbott = Achille Alfredo Abbate [1912 Castelmezzano, Italy-2013 New Mexico, USA], my 2nd cousin 2 times removed; his grandmother Rosa Trivigno and my great-great-grandmother Maria Carolina Trivigno were sisters.

To Castelmezzano – Con Amore by Col. Alfred Abbott

Reprinted from “Il Giornalino di Gian Burrasca” January 1976 of Club Culturale Italiano of Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA

For me, a trip to old Italia is not complete without a visit to Castelmezzano, my native town in Southern Italy, and to Perugia, seat of the UNIVERSITA ITALIANA PER STRANIERI, in beautiful Umbria, in Central Italy. Both places refresh my spirit, in different ways. Perugia we will discuss another time. For the moment, let me tell you a few things about Castelmezzano.

For I was born Achille Alfredo Abbate in this little “paese,” spent my first ten years there before my family migrated to America, New York City to be exact. What a jump that was, from rustic Castelmezzano, a remote town of about 800 souls, to one of the world’s largest cities. The wonder of it all for a ten-year old boy who had never seen a railroad, let alone a gleaming, floating wonder such as a steamship.

And then to go aboard at the port of Napoli for the sixteen-day voyage across the vast Atlantic Ocean. We were in third class quarters, but I can assure you that every ship’s officer and crew member in the second and first class had the opportunity of throwing me out of those rarified areas on more than one occasion. After the first week or so, they just gave up. But that made matters worse down in third class Abbate quarters. For I had to give an accounting of my protracted absences from the parental fold. It wasn’t easy. But there was so much to explore on that old tub, the Providence it was called, I think because without the help of providence we would never have made it to New York. December can be a rough time at sea.

Now the town of Castelmezzano – as so many others in South Italy’s mountains – sits, or clings really, high in those mountains, which are not called Dolomiti Lucane for nothing. You can get there from Napoli, to Salerno, Battipaglia, Eboli. (Does Eboli ring a bell, along with Carlo Levi?) Then the train veers inland, up into the hills of the region of Basilicata, or Lucania as it is also called, heading for Potenza, the highest regional capital of continental Italy. Castelmezzano is then about forty minutes south of Potenza, at an altitude of about 2,400 feet or 732 meters.

I spent my first ten years in Castelmezzano, among its stone houses with red tiled roofs, attending its then one-room schoolhouse, scrambling up – and sometimes unceremoniously falling off of its endlessly challenging rocky cliffs. A broken nose, causing me not infrequent sinus trouble to this day, (thank God for New Mexico’s dry salubrious climate) is my badge of honor for a sad and unsuccessful attempt to challenge those uncooperative and very rocky mountains once. Everything that goes up must come down. I came down fast that time, and flat on my face!

We helped some on our grandparents’, uncles’ and aunts’ “masserie” (farms), and consumed untold quantities of their tree-ripened , and sometimes not so ripe, figs, apricots, pears, apples, and grapes. And then, given the rare opportunity of “andare a cavallo,” riding, no saddle of course, their horse, mule or that stubborn but lovable “ciuccio,” donkey back to town, that really made the day – but not quite. For given one of these “steeds” to ride, we couldn’t resist the opportunity of galloping “hell bent for leather” through the narrow “strettole” or cobblestoned alleys that constitute Castelmezzano’s “main arteries.” This inevitably brought down on us “lazzaroni” the most violent – and most threatening, maledictions from the “sindaco” or mayor of the town, reinforced by such other hapless persons forced to duck into doorways to escape certain tragedy because of our “daredevil” equestrian antics. But of course their violent arm waving, fist shaking, dire threats of corporal punishment, coupled with “I’m gonna tell your papa,” only incited us to more daring exploits next time.

For the good books at the University of New Mexico School of Education properly define this as “the thrust for independence,” just in case any harried parents seek confirmation. Also next time in Castelmezzano I’ll tell this to cousin Ceccillo, whose daughter Maria despairs over her six-year old Rocchino’s infinite deviltry. And Rocchino has access to more modern technology which we didn’t have then for propagating more refined deviltry – good luck to Rocchino.

For there wasn’t much traffic in or out of Castelmezzano in those earlier days. Mainly because the steep, winding, five-mile rocky mountain road to the Campomaggiore Railroad Station down below was passable only on horseback most of the time. Cars, automobiles? Never saw one until the prominent Paterno’s and Campagna’s, native sons of Castelmezzano who later made good in the New York City building business, would come periodically back to the “paese” in what to us kids was regal style chauffeur-driven cars. Ah, what an occasion that was, not only for us kids, but for the whole town. To see something, a strange something on wheels, that moved by itself, scared us at first. When the motor was started, with smoke coming out the back and loud sounds coming from we knew not where. (I can well appreciate the fight of the Aztec Indians when Cortez attacked with his cannons.) And then the big horn on the outside, with its black rubber bulb and shiny metal part. Once Peppino Romano – now the retired postman – dared to sneak up and squeeze that bulb. How the noise made ominous echoes as it reverberated through the hills and valleys. It scared everybody to death. But did we applaud Peppino later, and did his Papa disapplaud him later yet. Peppino’s posterior was sore for days, he told us, but not without a good measure of youthful, and deserved, pride.

Toys? You improvised with what Mother Nature provided in those blessed hills. Take the pits of apricots, whittle each side against a nearby rock until you have an opening on both sides. You could have a good whistle for your enjoyment. Or play the pits against the church wall in the Piazza – one of the few level areas of Castelmezzano, where the old boys, the “anziani” played…

…”bocce” then. Now the Piazza is filled with cars, little FIATS. Only these can squeeze through, and then only as far as the Piazza. Stone steps impeded their further ingress into town. As if the ancients planned it that way, keeping cars out leaving our “streets” to pedestrians, a prevailing trend today in many urban areas. Didn’t those ancients know of the devastating approach of the motor age? You bet…

Toys? Take a tree branch, cut it in one long and one very short piece. Whittle the ends of the short piece into points, put it on the ground, then hit this short piece on its pointed end so as to make it spin up in the air, and while so spinning hit it again to see how far you can make it go. Competitive sports yet?

And then there was the “maestro.” In the town hierarchy, the schoolteacher ranked way up there among the “signori,” the elite of the town. The maestro rated the title of Don Peppe – as well as a long stick in school to remind us – and not always so gently – that school was for studying and not for fooling around. The rod gathered no dust then.

Once when Don Peppe ventured forth into the exotic world of the nearest big cities – Potenza, Salerno, or was it Napoli – and returned with a rubber ball as a toy for his sons’, the rest of us gathered round to watch this “magic” ball as it bounced against the church wall with such speed. And then, when Don Peppe’s sons deigned to let us play with said “magic” rubber ball – well, that was a “festa” for us deprived kids all right. For looking back, we weren’t deprived at all.

I think we had just about everything for a happy childhood in those rugged hills of our little Castelmezzano – plenty of room in which to improvise, in which to seek to demonstrate that “thrust for independence” that all youngsters must, and do – with or mostly without parental blessing. So that “thrust for independence” often times brought not a little warming of the backsides by parents, uncles, aunts for alleged misdeeds, for being “cattivo.” It is said that everything has its price…

There were many compensating factors too. Such as a “treat” at “Mammaranna’s” house – Grandma’s house. I can still see all those “goodies” (to us deprived kids) hung up so carefully from the ceiling, in the lower level of her little house. (Castelmezzano’s houses generally cling to the side of a big mountain.) The usual “castello” of old, castle for defense purposes, gives Castelmezzano its name, castle-in-the-middle, or half way up. I still don’t know how she managed to hang up on that suspended-from-the-ceiling rod all those nice “prosciutti” (hams), “subersata” (a kind of salami they make in those parts), and “caciocavallo” (cheese filled with a type of butter.) And all those fruits hanging up there all during the winter. I suppose the absence of a heating system prevented their rotting and falling down. Anyway, for us ever hungry youngsters to be the beneficiaries of some of these simple, but delectable goodies was indeed a memorable occasion. And then there was freshly made “ricotta.” Thank God my cousins have not lost that touch that our grandparents had. Why do I go back to Castelmezzano every chance I get? Sure, the mountain scenery is magnificent as always, but so are those “goodies.” Home-made “goodies” then, for not many went “outside” in those days. Except the more daring ones, who then went all the way – to America – where many thought the streets were paved with gold. The myth dies hard.

Well, I’m glad we came over – or else how would you know about Castelmezzano – surely the most beautiful town in all Italy?

Con Amore, Alfred A. Abbott

A BOY NAMED ACHILLE or Back to Castelmezzano

Seeing the name “Achille” on page 8 of the April Giornalino – ah, what visions it brings of one Achille Abbate, age 10, just transplanted from a little town in the hills of Southern Italy, and about to be enrolled in a New York City Public School for the first time. “Heavenly days,” said Achille to himself in Italian, the only language he spoke then.

Now, back in Castelmezzano where Achille was born, he could understand the townspeople (all 800 paesani) and they understood him. As I pointed out before (see Jan/76 Giornalino) Castelmezzano is surely the most, well, one of the most beautiful towns in all Italy. A certain lady from Vicopelago might be inclined to dispute this. But she’s named Ioli, imagine. Achille could point out such eminent figures bearing his name as the Pope in the 1930’s, Achille Ratti. Also a longtime mayor of Napoli and shipping tycoon was named Achille Lauro.

But Achille wouldn’t do that, and certainly not when he was about to become a new American school-boy in New York. All he wanted was to learn English and bring home decent grades on his report card.

But poor Achille had problems, real problems, mainly with his peer group. Not that he knew anything about peer groups and such, except those guys were skillful, persistent and nasty tormentors of one Achille from Italy. Achille couldn’t quite figure out why.

But soon he learned. It was his unique name that brought on all that orchestrated torment, yes, that unmitigated vilification. Achille! Why, even some of the teachers stumbled over the name Achille. One or two wanted to know if Achille was from Greece, of all things. Now, how could Achille have known that Southern Italy was at one time part of Magna Grecia, that it served as a major granary for the ancient Greek Empire? From Castelmezzano it isn’t far to Metaponto on the Mare Ionio, the Ionian coast, or to Paestum below Salerno, with the magnificent Greek temples still standing in affirmation of the grandeur of that era of Southern Italy’s history.

Back in Castelmezzano all little Achille could do was try to remember the names of the surrounding little towns he heard people say existed on the other side of those rugged mountains, those Dolomiti Lucane as some maps show.

Maybe Achille could think of the name of Potenza- that was, and is, the regional capital of Basilicata, or Lucania as this mountainous region is called. Somehow, like all transplanted youngsters, Achille learned English, went on to New York’s George Washington High School, from which another transplanted youngster from Germany, one Heinz Alfred Kissinger (1) later graduated. But by now Achille had gleaned the fact that his Papa back in Castelmezzano had bestowed a middle name on him at birth. A middle name perhaps not as distinguished as Achille, but no less honorable, by golly. (per bacco, if you like.)

Yes, Achille’s Papa had dubbed him Achille Alfredo – and wasn’t the Governor of the great State of New York named Alfred E. Smith, and wasn’t Al Smith running for President of the U.S. about that time?

Great days, if Alfred was good enough for the Governor, said Achille to himself…

So Achille became Alfred Achilles Abbate, and later he enlisted in the U.S. Army.

One day while serving in Japan, of all places, he spotted the name of an Army doctor, sure enough, called Achilles Tynes, stationed at Camp Zara outside Tokyo. When he went in to see him, it was like two long lost brothers meeting. One said to the other: “Gee, I have never met another fellow with the name Achilles. How did you get yours?”

Well, “reticent” as I am about things Castelmezzano, there I was, in Japan, telling all about our little town in Italy about my Papa and Mama and the house I was born in which is now the town “Municipio” or Municipal Building, and how it has a plaque out front. No, the plaque does not say “Achille slept here.” It says that Mr. Joseph Paterno – who left Castelmezzano as a boy and became a prominent builder in New York City, donated this house to the town (in remembrance of his humble parents) after acquiring it from my father.

Since Colonel Achilles Tynes was a medical doctor, I had to tell him about our “Nonno” Abbate, or “Zi Giuseppe” as he was known in and around Castelmezzano, and how he acted as the town “doctor” and “veterinarian,” although he couldn’t read or write. Men or animal with broken bones, hurt or wounded in that rugged, rocky terrain, or developing infections – they all called for “Zi Giuseppe Abbate” – for there was no real resident doctor then or now in Castelmezzano. Grandpa had the knack, an inborn capability for mending broken bones, wounds and infections. Lord knows he didn’t have much to work with outside of salt and vinegar, but it worked.

I must say Doctor Tynes got a big kick out of all this and all because his parents had seen fit to dub him Achilles…

The “anziani” or older folks back in Castelmezzano still call me Achille. And they should, Achille being a good and honorable name. But my peer group at that school in New York – they didn’t know much about life in Castelmezzano.

Saluti from Alfred Achille Abbott, or just Al Abbott

P.S. How Abbate to Abbott? That’s another story for another time, OK?


O.K. Achille, About my name though, it’s all right the way it is. I don’t need the help of eminent figures to make it distinguished and honorable…Seriously, we are waiting to hear the end of your interesting story. Sorry about your resemblance to Henry Kissinger, but you know how it is: you can’t win them all. Care to do more fencing?

The Lady from Vicopelago.


(1) Some say the writer looks a lot like Kissinger. “The Albuquerque Tribune” had an article on this.

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