The Layers Beyond The Image Reveal Mesmerizing Rabbit Holes

Take a look at this picture. What do you see? What do you feel? Does it spark your curiosity? Does it inspire you? Or are you simply left wondering if you’re coming or going?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but those thousand words often represent just the start of a great story. Here are the thousand words (and beyond) prompted by this picture.

First, just the facts. I took this picture in August of 1988. It’s just outside the medieval village of Fontecchio in the Province of Abruzzo, Italy. That’s the hometown of my father’s father. I was the first of his descendants to visit there. (My father and his sister wouldn’t get there until a year or so later.)

But it’s not like we didn’t have family there. It’s just that I didn’t know any of them, and I assumed they had no idea who I was. Indeed, during a scouting trip to Fontecchio the day before, it certainly seemed that way. After all, despite my pedigree, I felt I looked a lot less Italian than the rest of my family.

My father told me his godfather, Angelo Rosati, spent his summers in Fontecchio. Angelo had twice held the post of Chairman of the Art Department of prestigious Rhode Island College. By 1988, he had retired from his professorship. He was from Buffalo, and I had met him a couple of times when he came back to visit my grandfather.

He might not recognize me immediately, but once I told him who I was, my father promised me he would be more than cordial. The trick was how to find him. There were no cell phones back then, and we didn’t even know if the remote Italian village had phone service. Hence the need for our reconnaissance mission before formally visiting the town.

Since no one knew where he lived, my father instructed me to ask for “Nunzia, the sister of Father Peter.” I didn’t know who she was, but my grandfather confirmed what my father said. Nunzia was a direct relative. Nunzia was to be my contact to find Angelo Rosetti.

Of course, as I wandered outside the walled village that hot summer day with my half-Italian friend Mike (who looked more Italian than my full-blooded self), I had to speak in fractured Italian inquiring as to the whereabouts of one “Nunzia, le sorella del Padre Pietro.” We went from house to house, only to be greeted with unfriendly suspicion. After each door repeatedly slammed in our faces, I walked up a long dirt path to try one last door. Mike faithfully followed me.

I lightly knocked on the door. Mike, now fearing the entire village was stalking the “ugly Americans,” waited tentatively several paces behind. No one answered. I knocked again, this time a little louder. Still, the house remained silent. I looked back at Mike, whose nervous brow began to show beads of sweat. One final time, I rapped at the door and waited. As my left foot moved away from the portal in apparent surrender, the door slowly opened. A woman, not quite middle-aged, appeared from the darkness inside.

The vision initially stunned me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the burly middle-aged husband looming in the background, warily eyeing the two strangers at his door. The dim light did not prevent me from getting a full view of the man’s giant torso illuminated by his white sleeveless undershirt. I meekly offered to the woman my request to locate Padre Peter’s sister Nunzia. The woman just shook her head in mock ignorance.

From the corner of my dejected eye, I saw the obviously bothered husband rise from his comfortable chair. My mind raced wildly. As the muscular man approached, I imagined a shotgun, two fresh graves in the frontier lands of the eastern Apennines, and headlines concerning two missing Americans. The wheels in my brain spun in overdrive. I had to do something, something fast.

Almost instinctively, I blurted out a desperate plea: “Mi chiamo Cristoforo Carosa!” [translation: “My name is Christopher Carosa.”]

In an instant, the demeanor of the natives changed markedly. From the depression-era scowls of lowly serfs emerged the beaming smiles witnessing the return of the Prodigal Son. In reality, they had never heard of or imagined a “Christopher Carosa,” but the surname provided all the evidence they needed. These two men at their door, so they came to know, did not come from some Roman governmental agency as they initially suspected. They represented their family—or at least one of them did. They gave me a familial embrace and invited both Mike and me in for wine and food.

After listening to our tale, they immediately understood our mission. They told us they could do one better than finding Nunzia, they could find Angelo himself! Within minutes after having been telephoned (who knew!), Angelo appeared at the very same door that Chris and Mike had thought portended their doom. Soon, the artist had introduced the two to nearly everyone in the small walled “city” of Fontecchio. Nearly every one of them was called “Carosa.”

Eventually, Angelo took us to my grandfather’s old house. Then he said, “Here, I want to show you something.” He proceeded to guide us along the path in the picture. This led to a large vineyard and a cemetery. Many women were working in the field. Balanced delicately on their heads, they carried large wicker baskets filled with their fruit.

One very old woman stopped to speak to Angelo. We kept our distance to respect their privacy. When they finished talking, she went on with her chores, and Angelo motioned us over. “You know, she knows who you are,” he told me matter-of-factly.

This didn’t surprise me. Angelo had introduced us to nearly the entire population and, when he explained who my family was, they immediately understood who I was.

“Of course, she does,” I said to Angelo. “Once you told her about my grandfather…”

“No, no, no,” Angelo interrupted. “She came to me before I said anything to her to tell me she knew who you were. She said you looked just like your great-grandfather.”

I didn’t believe him… until we saw my great-grandfather’s grave in the cemetery. You see, in Italy, there’s a tradition of placing a photograph of the deceased on the gravestone. I looked at the photograph of my great-grandfather. I instantly recognized the shape of the head, the facial features, and the hairline. They were the same as mine.

But the story doesn’t end there.

As I told this tale to my wife and kids, they always suspected I embellished it a bit. They couldn’t believe this was true.

A quarter century later, I took my family to Fontecchio. Again, we met a relative, Linda, who chaperoned us. Out in the middle of the piazza by Fontecchio’s famous 14th-century fountain, an elderly woman came up to Linda and began speaking to her in Italian. After a moment of hushed conversation, the woman looked over at us, smiled, and walked away.

Linda came over to me and matter-of-factly said, “You know, she knows who you are.”

“Of course, she does. Once you told her about my grandfather…”

“No, no, no,” Linda interrupted. “She came to me before I said anything to her to tell me she knew who you were. She said you looked just like your great-grandfather.”

I grinned and turned to look at my kids’ stunned faces.

And that is the great story hidden beyond the layers of the picture.

Now take a look at one of your family pictures and tell your own great story.