Small Town Girl

Suzanne brushed the hair from her eyes and rubbed her lower back. Stacks of old books surrounded her on all sides.

Being the only grandchild on both sides of her family, Suzanne was intimately familiar with the thankless job of settling an estate. As she stretched, she spied an inconspicuous black journal tucked near the bottom of a pile. The uncle she had loved so dearly didn’t seem the diary type.

Walt Barnes--dear Uncle Walt--had lived a quiet life outside of Fulton, Missouri. To the locals, he was the shy mechanic who married the deacon’s daughter. Suzanne puzzled over the worn notebook. Maybe it was Auntie’s...

The beeping of her phone brought Suzanne out of her reverie. She would have to hurry to get back in time for the staff meeting. Absently, she grabbed the journal for what was sure to be dull reading.

Staff meeting ran late. No hope on the horizon for any new acquisitions. Donations were sharply down, and the museum was suffering. As curator, the worst was having nothing to attract visitors. Actually, worse was having no job.

Suzanne spent her entire career building this museum’s collections from a backroom stash, to a respectable array that provided quality traveling exhibits. And now, there was talk of selling off her precious darlings to pay for upkeep.

Shutting down lights required a walk through the galleries. To this day, Suzanne shivered as she crept past the Egyptian mummy on display. Alone, in the dark, with a dead guy...my typical Friday night, Suzanne chuckled. She loved this job. Having forgotten the notebook, she swung by her office in a swift dash to get home before midnight.

With a glass of wine Suzanne snuggled into the couch pillows and grabbed the old journal. Several loose papers were stuffed into the middle, and a small key hung from the end of the ribbon bookmark. Setting the extra pages aside, Suzanne reminisced.

Her aunt and uncle had lived an orderly life in their spotless, two-bedroom home. The house never changed, trapped in 1950s décor. Twenty years since Auntie had passed, Uncle Walt hadn’t changed a thing. However, his cluttered piles had gathered in all the empty spaces. When his health declined, the house began to look like a maze of treacherous stacks: books, magazines, manuals, and a mysterious journal.

Suzanne woke with a start. Her head had slipped off her hand. Kinks riddled her spine. How long had she stayed up reading? Uncle Walt had surprised her...a silent historian, he had illustrated every worn page of data with tiny pen-and-ink, watercolor delights. Her head swam with the delicate lines that spoke more powerfully than words. Suzanne hugged the journal and smiled.

She made coffee and settled in for a weekend of uninterrupted reading. Page after page, she noticed a theme...Uncle Walt had been studying religious artwork.

The little notes scrawled across the pages hinted that he may have been filling gaps of a bigger story...something about reliefs. His compositions with vibrant colors, graceful figures, and soft edges reminded Suzanne of Luca Della Robbia.

Unable to contain her curiosity, she grabbed some Renaissance Art books and looked up Robbia. Interesting. Uncle Walt’s sketches were remarkably reminiscent of Robbia’s works. Uncle Walt’s were various scenes of the Passion, yet no records of any by Robbia...still, the similarity was uncanny.

Delving deeper, Suzanne laid out the pile of loose papers that had been stuffed into the journal.

A ship’s manifest, receipts, and a very old letter...the makings of a mystery, mused Suzanne.

Dated July, 1880 from the village of Castofelina, Italy, the manifest indicated 15 items were shipped to New York. Receipts showed that a train completed the shipment to St. Louis. Grabbing her phone, she pulled up Castofelina. Coastal, near the port of Livorno, a straight shot from Florence…referring to the journal again, Suzanne flipped to where she had seen notes and a drawing of a church labeled San Ferdinando, Castofelina.

Google showed only a footnote in an article about the Cathedral of Livorno. ‘San Ferdinando, built in 1440, was destroyed on a Saturday morning in 1810. An earthquake caused the ceiling to collapse taking the lives of all inside. Salvaged were a few items from the altar.’ It appeared that the parish was never rebuilt, as the village had been all but swallowed.

Thoroughly intrigued, Suzanne opened the folded letter carefully. The paper cracked and split. She set it down and pieced it together. The letter was addressed from Signor Marco deRosa to Signor Bruno dePaolo in February, 1880. It was signed, ‘con amore, Nonno.’

DeRosa explained that when the earthquake occurred, he was the only survivor. His entire family had perished with the majority of the townspeople while attending a funeral. As the new church groundskeeper, he was outside prepping the cemetery for the final internment, escaping the destruction. Marco tried unsuccessfully to rescue people. A lone teenager, he was unable to shift the rubble.

Sifting through debris over the following weeks, he found and kept the stations of the cross. He had held onto them for 70 years. After Bruno had settled, Marco shipped them to his grandson, so that they would again serve to honor God in a church.

Curious, she knew that her grandfather was prominently known as ‘Deacon dePaolo’ of an old church about an hour away. Unfortunately, she had never been there, but had heard countless humorous tales of her father and Auntie’s childhood under the scrutiny of the congregation. Was there any relation to Bruno dePaolo?

The sun had gone down hours ago. Sleep and then a much anticipated field trip to Saint Ferdinand’s tomorrow...Suzanne curled up on the couch.

Sunday morning, precious journal in hand, Suzanne set out.

Saint Ferdinand was nestled along the side of a wooded hill above a small cove of water. Weathered, local limestone exterior with one small bell tower, the church didn’t really fit a style so much as a budget. It was clearly old, but built with economy.

Grabbing her jacket and the journal, Suzanne headed toward the large oak doors.

Despite the meager setting, the interior of the church was stunning! There were 10 oak pews on each side of the worn, red-carpeted aisle. At the end rose an altar backed by a carved reredos housing a simple wooden crucifix. The walls were unfinished stone set off by 14 spectacular stations of the cross. Their bright colors brought a vibrant air to the sanctuary.

Suzanne had cut the time a little close, hurried to her seat, and the organ thrummed to life. Anxious to examine the art, Suzanne sat on the edge of her seat. The final prayer and recessional hymn barely echoed before Suzanne was on her feet studying the first station.

Each was exquisitely made - glazed terra cotta reliefs – charming figures with bright, unfaded enamel tones. These were clearly masterpieces and very, very old. Suzanne was giddy, jotting notes and taking photographs.

Could these be the stations sent from Italy? Were they the originals from San Ferdinando?

Parishioners began to gather for the next service. Reluctantly, Suzanne collected her things and shuffled to the small narthex. She nearly missed the brass plaque beneath a faded portrait.

“These beautiful stations of the cross were gifted by my grandfather, Bruno dePaolo in 1880. May they forever pave our way to holiness.

Blessings,

Deacon dePaolo”

Suzanne stood riveted to the floor. She had never known her grandfather, Deacon dePaolo. Her father had married outside of the Catholic church, creating a schism that had kept Suzanne from knowing any dePaolo family history. She was directly related to Bruno dePaolo and Marco deRosa, ‘Nonno’ from the letter?!

She staggered back to her car. Suzanne mentally filled in the gaps of her family tree.

Having gathered hoards of data, Suzanne returned home with the journal. She had the manifest, receipts, and the letter. She had the article concerning the earthquake at San Ferdinando. The church plaque further confirmed the stations’ origin. She knew they were in the same era as Robbia’s greatest works...same style, same time frame, proximity of Florence. Yet, she mused, Robbia was never known to have rendered stations of the cross, and had barely begun this enameling technique in 1440. Stations weren’t even coined as a term until the mid 1400’s.

She looked again through the journal. Her uncle had sketched each one of the stations. The likeness to Robbia’s work was unmistakable. She set it aside, and the key-tethered bookmark slipped out.

Monday morning, Suzanne woke with a plan. She left her apartment just before bank hours. A shot in the dark, she didn’t know whether the key would gain her access to a safety deposit box or not. The sun was low enough on the horizon that she had to squint while driving the windy Ozark roads. The bank closest to Uncle Walt’s home had two cars in the lot.

Throwing her shoulders back and taking a deep breath, Suzanne entered the lobby and walked straight to the counter. The clerk smiled.

‘I’d like to open the safety deposit box of Walt Barnes,’ Suzanne nervously blurted.

Apropos for a small town, the manager peered over her cubicle wall. “Walt was your uncle, right? Of course, dear. Follow me.”

Suzanne’s palms were sweating, and she fumbled with the key in the lock. Finally, she flipped open the door to reveal a handful of memories Uncle Walt had cherished, including Auntie’s wedding band. She hesitated before reaching for what must have been the 15th item from Italy. The cracked leather document tube opened easily. After Suzanne unrolled the antique drawing paper, she leaned weakly against the table in shock.

Pinching her arm for the third time, Suzanne had to admit she wasn’t dreaming. Original sketches of the stations and Luca della Robbia’s notes described in detail the secret family technique for metal-infused glaze on terra cotta. Clearly, he was still developing it, as there were many crossed out portions with notes to modify the processes. The content was invaluable, as Robbia had taken his tin-based glaze technique to his grave. His studio signature at the bottom corner of each page established the date and authenticity of the documents.

Good Lord! thought Suzanne. These were the very first. They were the original models for the entire process. No one would have believed my theories, but this is undeniable!

She stared speechlessly at the drawings for nearly an hour. The manager came to check on her, breaking the trance.

Suzanne drove silently to the museum with the precious leather tube tucked in the back seat. Implications of this revelation swam circles in Suzanne’s mind.

It was ‘Museum Monday,’ which was always quiet. Galleries were closed, and the office was rarely populated. Suzanne crept into her basement office and closed the door. Clearing a space, she unrolled the drawings again, breathing deeply to calm herself.

She knew precisely what she needed to do. Perhaps she had known all along, but without this solid evidence, it would have been career suicide to publish her hypothesis. The priceless stations had been gifted by her great, great grandfather to the church. Yet, the drawings were hers. She reached into her files and pulled out the dog-eared grant application. So many times she wished she could present something worthy...

“Small Town Girl Wins $20,000 Grant.”

“Dr. dePaolo Brings Life to the Ozarks with Rare Find.”

“Walt Barnes Leaves Behind Treasured Gift.”

“Curator Saves Museum by Donating Priceless Drawings.”

Suzanne folded the newspaper clippings and peered out the window of the plane as it began to descend. She had chosen to begin her research by heading straight to Castofelina where this had all begun nearly 600 years ago. Somehow, finding the ruins of San Ferdinando and honoring those who had died felt like the right place to start.