Front cover: Walks Far Woman
Back cover: The Aegean Sea
English translation by Francesca G. Premi
with editor Nancy Eckert, California

Written with ample rhythms, and sometimes having a tight flow of images, this work has also the merit to take you to unthinkable locations and to suggest such sensations, both characteristics found in some of Salgari’s best fiction stories. Here, we have instead a picture quite real and fortunate, thanks also to the fine judgment brought forth, compelling the reader to actually try to emulate it.
It’s the story of a woman, beautiful, in her own right unique; it is the victory of the heart together with a bright mind succeeding over the worldly pettiness, here crushed, annihilated.

Written with ample rhythms, and sometimes having a tight flow of images, this work has also the merit to take you to unthinkable locations and to suggest such sensations, both characteristics found in some of Salgari’s best fiction stories. Here, we have instead a picture quite real and fortunate, thanks also to the fine judgment brought forth, compelling the reader to actually try to emulate it.
It’s the story of a woman, beautiful, in her own right unique; it is the victory of the heart together with a bright mind succeeding over the worldly pettiness, here crushed, annihilated.

Umberto Belluco

To my father
to my husband
and to all the courageous women in history

“This above all, to thine own self be true”

William Shakespeare – “Hamlet”
(Act I, scene III)

“Para mi solo recorrer los caminos que
tienen Corazon, cualquier camino que
tenga Corazon.
Por ahi yo recorro, y la unica prueba que
vale es traversar todo su largo.
Y por ahi yo recorro mirando, mirando,
sin aliento.
Don Juan”.

Carlos Castaneda – “The Teachings of
Don Juan: a Yaqui Way of Knowledge”

Acknowledgements

My many thanks go out to all those people and animals: by entering into my life, they have filled it with richness and grandeur. While putting into motion all the works of the heart, through their teachings, they have kindled in me a spiritual evolution and the sense of courage.

Francesca G. Premi

CHAPTER 1

Once Upon a Time on a Starry Night…

The one thing that I cannot recall and can only imagine is my birth, which happened around 10:30 at night on the 16th day of March in 1950. I was born under the constellation of Pisces, five years after World War II ended which left my people and country practically stripped of everything.
I can only imagine the old walls of medieval Udine, dark and cold against the sky, holding the lives of people inside, while the ones outside would hurry home along narrow alleys, their footsteps echoing in the evening silence from wall to wall of the surrounding historic palaces.
I was told much later, that the “soft spot” that usually hardens quickly at the top of every baby’s head and known as the seventh “chakra,” was not closing on mine. This worried my parents. A pediatrician told them that having cheated death, I was certain to become a genius.
My father descended from an ancient and noble family from Verona. He would hold my small body in his hands with particular care, awe and endless love, as if I was made of celestial matter. I was the most precious and beautiful thing he had laid eyes upon. I was his rose. This he told me later, while gazing at some old black and white photos of my first year of existence.
My mother was of Andalusian blood with eyes like hot coal, according to my father. They struck him dumb and he could not help himself but marry her. She was educated, smart and beautiful in her tiny and slender body and yet generous, holding me at her breast a long time.
A year later we moved to the Retic Alps, to the village of Dobbiaco, almost at the border with Austria where my mother, an elementary teacher, was hired by the local school. There my sister was born, of quite different aspect and character than me. We grew up together, like two drops of water in the same cup, tight-knit and yet competitive for our parents’ attention. She chose to be needy because that way she could always get on the soft side of them. On the other hand, I chose to be a rascal, because that way I could always challenge myself and explore.
At two years of age I was already drawing our house-cat.
My father had left his job as a detective of Udine’s Police department behind and Dobbiaco could not offer much to him, hence we moved to Bolzano, the capital of the South-Tyrolese province, then in full industrial expansion.
This is a region rich with forests, waterways, meadows, orchards, vineyards and splendid mountains, the Dolomites.
Studded with medieval castles and remains, these mountains have a rich history through the ages.
This mountainous cluster so dear to my heart is a unique formation of pale rocks called “dolomia.” By the light of the setting sun, they tinge themselves with surprisingly beautiful nuances of pink-orange and red-purple, in clear contrast with the other Alpine mountains and their underlying forests, dark against the radiance of the sky. It’s a phenomenon that lasts only a few minutes but has lit the fantasy and fervent imagination of the natives for generations. They have created all sorts of magical tales with fairies and witches, princes and knights, spirits of springs and trees, nymphs of enchanted lakes and sorcerers, ladies of fortresses and queens of snowy peaks.
Many of these tales have accompanied me during endless hours in the bush. Later, I could swear I saw such figures come out from their lore and into the realm of my vision… The lakes, like diamonds embedded in a huge crown, add a note of brilliancy to the landscape, reflecting skies, leaves and naked rocks into the deep blue and the silver streaks. This poetic symphony educates the heart to a respect and admiration for nature itself.

The first clear memory that I have of the world around me is linked to the environment on the Dolomites, specifically to the forests of the Renon Plateau. One sunny summer afternoon, during a Sunday excursion, my parents laid me under a big pine tree on a blanket, while they picked mushrooms. Asleep and cozy, I suddenly opened my eyes and saw a male deer, probably flushed from a bush by my parents’ wandering, and heading right towards me. Its leap over my small body was something that remained unforgettable in my mind, like a moment in time, captured and fixed forever.
Bolzano was already a growing industrial city, like several such centers in northern Italy. All the men in need of a job could find one there, although not exactly what they liked or were qualified for. Father got a job at a steel-factory, while my mother taught at a small school in a nearby village where we all lived. Every day my father rode a bicycle to work. When they were both busy, a young local nanny took care of us girls.
One day, around Christmas time, I just wanted to surprise my father by meeting him on his way back from work. I waited right where he was leaving his transportation to take the trail up to the village. In those days a bike was the best way to travel privately on paved roads in Italy. Walking trails were the most normal thing used for reaching locations in the countryside.
I decided to take things into my own hands and I got away from the nanny’s supervision while she was busy with my sister. I made quickly for the bush. There I collected a small pine tree, put it on my shoulders and sang to keep my spirit up. Down I went on the rocky trail to the bottom of the valley where the Brenner Pass artery runs north to south towards Bolzano. At the intersection where my father would leave his bicycle, I stayed waiting for him to come back that evening. Another teacher going up the trail saw me and asked about it.
Meanwhile back at the village everyone was looking for me. They were worried over my disappearance. Previously, a small boy had gone alone into the wilderness and was found lifeless at the bottom of a crevasse, where he had accidentally fallen. Everybody thought the worse until the upcoming teacher brought news about me sitting with a pine tree on my shoulder and singing at the base of the trail. They all were relieved and came for me. My mother had tears of joy and my father, once home, got a real kick out of the whole incident.
I was three years of age, when I drew my first horse, and realized fully that I had been blessed with my grandfather Ubaldo’s gift and talent.

CHAPTER 2

Grandparents’ Tales…

The story of my ancestor began with the “signoria” Della Scala in Verona, the city immortalized, along with the Montagues and the Capulets, in Shakespeare’s tragedy about Romeo & Juliet’s outstanding love for each other. A captain of fortune from Brittany, he offered his sword to the Prince, who was satisfied with his service that he rewarded him with titles of nobility and land. A white rampant horse on a sky-blue background became its banner and coat of arms, and the Latin name “Praemium,” his name, a reminder of the many tournaments won. My father’s father, grandpa Ubaldo, from which I inherited my gift for the arts, was his direct descendant.

My sweetest memories are those connected to all of my grandparents. Mother’s mother was the widow of a man who died in the United States as an immigrant, one among the thousands of Italians who left their country hoping for a better future for themselves and their families. He had found some work in the region of the Great Lakes in a mine. Eventually he fell sick, after contracting a serious pulmonary inflammation, which took him to his grave. My mother was three years of age then, and never had a chance to know her father. This fact became an ongoing regret in her life.
Grandmother raised her three children alone, without taking another companion and put all of them through school. She believed strongly in education as a great tool to provide a better chance in life. This philosophy became the thread in our family as well. My mother would add: “Especially for women!”
My sister and I were always reminded that sacrifice, endurance and culture are the mortar of one’s building skills, the foundation of all achievements.
As for my grandfather’s spirit – I was baptized with his same name – within our family he has understandably been a powerful force, towering in my mother’s life, and consequently in ours.
In my life, on the other hand, I’ve been particularly fond of Saint Francis from Assisi, the prophet of pure love and simplicity. This anti-clergy rebel who inspired the ones in search of the Truth, the poet understood by birds and beasts (the wolf of Gubbio) and whose followers often walked the tight rope of the Inquisition, became my hero.
My maternal grandmother was a sweet and generous being. Immaculate locks of silk gracefully framed her oval face. She had chosen to live with one of her two sons, the priest, who spiritually guided a small mountain community. My merry times there were somehow connected with her beloved plants, her bees, the apple orchard and her chicken coop.
The pretty stairway up to the old two-story building was lined with a solemn double row of huge “agave” plants in shaped stone vases.
They would greet you reverently, and from every window and balcony geraniums in all colors would smile, lifting the austere house’s gray “façade”.
I was always very enthralled with grandma’s cactus. I was once caught trying to touch one of her biggest “barrel cactus” plants with my small forefinger, just a few millimeters away from its “aculei”. “It will prick you…” she would say “…and you will cry.” At the same time that my finger was making it closer to the plant, I was hearing a little voice in my head saying, “Touch it!” And so I did. The tip of the prickle entered my index right under the nail in the soft spot leaving that part in throbbing pain, but I did not shed a tear. I said instead emphatically, “Grandma, it stings!”
Then there was the time I was found eating some ants traveling up and down the stairs, busy trying to get some goods from the storage room. The formic acid in their tiny bodies seemed to entice my taste buds and it was a pity having to leave such practice alone, because of my uncle’s veto. Maybe the natural attraction I had for that particular chemical or medicine was a cure to some unknown imbalance.
Granny’s poultry represented a very enthralling thing to me, a real “must see”. I loved to eat the yummy eggnog she would fix for me every afternoon but, most of all, I enjoyed entertaining myself with her chickens, conversing with the birds about their young ones, their preferred food and getting their permission to be in the coop with them for a while.

It was at my paternal grandparents’ estate though, that I would actually develop a serious communication with such winged creatures. While my cousin Carla seemed to always have some problems feeding the flock, with the rooster attacking her and the hens pecking on her scabs, I managed to have a fair relationship with them. They were big birds with considerable talons and I paid some respect to that, without being afraid.
Any time I entered their space for some reason I greeted them, calling them by their names and at egg-collection time, I asked for their permission to do so, always leaving some behind so that they would not feel robbed. At sunset I liked to go into their cozy coop, passing through the little door they used and roost with them, until grandma would call for supper.
I never had a problem understanding the chicken-language and I could even see the rooster nodding at my comments at times.
I also copied their egg-laying techniques. Once they found me squatted in one of the nests, arms behind my back, clucking.
I had noticed that grandma would grind the shells and mix a powder together with the feed, so I had asked her about it. “To help the hens create a stronger egg-shell”… she had explained.
If I’d eat some of it, I had silently concluded, I’d certainly improve the quality of my production too. Thus, I tried to put my theory to work. The story became a classic in my family. Still today they like to bring it up on occasion when we are gathered around the family dinner table.
Truly carefree and wonderful times were the ones spent at my paternal grandparents’ home. The house was surrounded by an old stonewall, nicely dressed up by blackberry and raspberry plants. The ancient house stood with its tower-like fashion, and with terraces of grapevines, an orchard and a garden. To reach the place from the village, one had to pass over the bridge on the local creek, which in time had carved a deep gorge coming down from the mountains before it finally met with the great Adige River. By taking a right up the paved road along the creek’s bed, one came to the homes of two of my childhood friends. On top of the hill and bending to the left, a whitish cobblestone road would lead to the first gate. From there one entered directly into the vineyard, along a grassy trail next to the stone walls towards the big old wooden main gate, and through a “pergola” of concord-grapes going to the house.
Stonewalls and terraces are still home today to several types of reptiles, even vipers. Having them around requires special attention and respect. We were taught how to handle such a venomous bite, and how to prevent it.
Grandma Giovanna, from which I received my second name, was a slender and elegant “signora” afraid of nothing. Once, as she told me, she hung a goose-down bedspread out the bedroom window to air during the morning hours. A snake crawled in the cozy and puffy thing.
Later on, as she put the spread back onto the bed with the unusual guest in it, sweet grandpa Ubaldo, the noble artist, was blamed for being particularly “daring” that night… There was of course a double jump-up once they discovered that the daring one had been a bull snake of considerable size. Grandma used to give importance to the apparition of snakes around the place. Some, she had pointed out, would bring rain with them.
Grandmother was tough, willful and possessed stamina suitable to be a Marine drill sergeant. Grandpa was a quiet man, with great inner stature and talents… We grandchildren all got a fair share of these gifts, my sister and I in the Visual Arts and my cousins in the music fields. My aunt was a great pianist and a music educator.
While grandma was an excellent cook, grandpa made the most exquisite wines. Additionally, with the same creative passion he would use to paint and play instruments, he’d knit and crochet beautiful quilts and pullovers. On Sundays they used to take me to church and then to eat ice cream at “Colomba’s,” the local coffee shop in the main square. There, the television was always on some soccer game, attracting clusters of men to have an aperitif or an espresso.
During our teenage years, my cousins and I would sneak away from the farm. While pretending to play “hide and seek” in the vineyard, we’d slip away down the terraces and run into town to go party with our friends. We’d meet at someone’s home or at a local café with a jukebox. There, we’d kick up our heels at the music of the Beatles, Dylan and the Yardbirds. It was the same crowd we used to go to the creek with for some swimming in the afternoon or to play at the “little temple,” a neoclassical round building with columns, which would add a Parnassian aura to the surrounding bucolic atmosphere of the nature. There, one could imagine the Greek Faun-god Pan*, running around with his flute, seeking the nymphs of trees and springs in the quiet and lazy summer day.
There was another very special spot at our grandparents’ place: an old cavern at the edge of the property. It wound into the heart of the mountain and branched in three different directions, each branch leading out into the open, and each exit far apart from each other.
It was probably a war relic, or maybe a partisan hideout. We kids loved that place, although it was dark and scary, and home to nocturnal critters and cryptic crawlers. Our grandparents were concerned about dangerous explosives that may have been left behind by the war. They tried to discourage us from going there to play by saying that a great brown bear inhabited the cave. Just exactly what we wanted to hear!