The Place that Beckons Me and Binds Me Like No Other

 What is it about this place that calls me back?  It beckons me, it binds me like no other. 

 

Joyce and I were blessed to travel to many places in the world and meet many wonderful people.  But of all the places we traveled, the one that holds the dearest place in our hearts is the farmhouse in Italy.  

 

I received the coveted Lilly Endowment Sabbatical Grant in 2010.  They encouraged me to travel and to find a place of sabbath rest.  I set out on a quest to find the perfect Tuscan Farmhouse where we could rest, reflect, and find renewal for our souls.  

 

I spent many hours researching our options and reading travelers’ reviews. I kept coming back to a farmhouse outside of San Gimignano named La Torraccia di Chiusi.  All of the reviews were consistent in their glowing praise.  In fact, there was not one single negative review, not a negative word.  We went to this wonderful farmhouse wondering if it could possibly live up to our lofty expectations—we did not need to worry, it exceeded them.   

 

Life at the farmhouse has a comforting cadence, a pleasant predictability, and a soothing similarity each day.   Early in the morning the woodcutter arises and splits wood before filling his wheelbarrow and making his rounds to the different fireplaces and wood stoves.  He is a simple and humble man who moves slowly but faithfully.  The rooms are heated by steam, powered by a wood stove that he replenishes throughout the day.  Bruno also cooks his Etruscan bread in a wood stove.  We speak to the woodcutter each morning saying, “Buongiorno!”

 

He smiles, says “Buongiorno” and goes about his methodical task.  

 

Maritza arrives early to prepare breakfast each morning.  There is typical Italian meat, cheese, bruschetta, breads, homemade organic jams, fruit, cereal, yogurt, juices and coffee.  In addition, Maritza always scrambles a few eggs and bakes a cake.  The freshly baked cake, we had lemon, apple, and chocolate, was always warm, right out of the oven.  

       

The men who work on the farm are in and out of the kitchen as they prepare for their day.  Maria comes in by 8:30 each morning and we hear the warm shouts of Buongiorno! as others welcome her.  Stefano and Donatella will often drop in as well.  It is evident that these are not just co-workers, this is a special, close knit family.  Bruno will come in the afternoon to prepare for the evening meal.  

       

When we arrive at breakfast we are always welcomed by Maritza.  She is so happy to see us and when we compliment her on the delicious food, she is humbled and grateful.

 

We found life at the farmhouse to be the beautiful balm that we needed to restore and renew our spirits.  It is peaceful and quiet, soothing and serene.  And the kindness and love that Stefano, Donatella, Maria, and the staff showed to us was the seal of authenticity that we were indeed members of the Torraccia family.  

       

The farmhouse is located on the famed Via Francigena, the ancient Pilgrims highway that led all the way from Canterbury, England to Rome.  The Archbishop of Canterbury made this journey in 990 AD and described the house in some detail, the house before reaching San Gimignano, the house that is today La Torraccia di Chiusi.  A noble Italian family, the Conti De Vecchi Abbracciabeni, lived in this farmhouse for 750 years.

 

Joyce and I first came to the farmhouse in 2010 after receiving the Lilly Grant.  We returned with a group of friends in 2017.  We came back two years later.  Our last day at the farmhouse in 2019 was Joyce’s birthday.

 

I went to breakfast early because I was returning our rental car to Siena.  I told Maritza that Joyce would be coming soon.  She rushed outside and returned with a red rose and placed it, alongside a homemade card, at Joyce’s seat.

 

When Joyce walked in the door, Maritza and Sisi sang Happy Birthday!  They hugged Joyce and wished her the most heartfelt Birthday greetings!

 

The homemade card, Maritza called a valentine.  When Joyce expressed her deep appreciation for what they had done, Sisi said, “You deserve it because you are so kind.”

 

We were taking another group to the farmhouse last year.  But Joyce’s dementia was getting worse, in fact, she was quickly declining.  I told the group they would have to go without us. 

 

I stayed in touch with Maria and kept her posted on Joyce’s condition.  I shared the sad news in February that Joyce had passed away.  Maria and the staff lit candles in the chapel for Joyce.  

 

I knew that I had to return to the farmhouse.  It was calling me to come back.  I planned the trip for early November. 

 

I decided to apply for Global Entry since I would be traveling more.  Most of the application is done online, but the final step is an in-person interview with US Customs.  I made an appointment to meet a Customs Agent at the Greensboro airport.  

 

He was very pleasant as we went through the preliminaries.  Then he asked, “When will you be traveling outside of the United States?”

 

“November,” I replied.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Italy.”

 

“Where in Italy?”

 

I told him the story of La Torraccia di Chiusi.  How Joyce and I found the farmhouse in 2010.  I told him about planning the trip last year, but not being able to go because of Joyce’s dementia.  I shared that Joyce had passed away in February and I felt the farmhouse calling me to return.

 

I looked across the table and saw tears rolling down his face.  He looked at me and said, “You are approved.  There is nothing else you need to do.”

 

When Joyce and I were preparing for a big trip, she would start putting clothes and items aside weeks in advance.  We would use a bedroom upstairs to carefully place all of our clothes to be packed.  The suitcases would come out about a week before departure.

 

Joyce was a master packer.  No one could pack a suitcase better than Joyce.  I would often try to pack my suitcase, but she would come behind me and say, “This won’t do.”  And she would repack it, much better of course than I could ever do.  

 

I was laying clothes aside for the trip.  When it came time to start packing the suitcases, I missed her packing skills greatly.  

 

I planned this trip without telling anyone.  I made reservations at the farmhouse, telling Maria that I wanted the same room where Joyce and I always stayed, “Il Gufo Reale.” (The Eagle Owl)

 

In the hallway, outside of Il Gufo Reale, there is an oval window.  You can look through the window and see the beautiful gardens of the farmhouse.  When Robin and Katherine Team came with us to the farmhouse in 2017, they took a picture through that window.  When they returned home, they had Chip Holton to paint the scene in the picture.  

 

They presented it to us for Christmas that year.  We hung the painting over our bed so we would be reminded of the farmhouse every day.  

 

When I told our friends that Joyce and I would not be able to travel to Italy last year, I did say that I planned to go back at some point in the future.  Nevin Rohrbaugh asked me one day if I planned to return to the farmhouse.  I said, “Yes, in November.”  Nevin and Suzanne, along with Lewie and Beryl Phillips, graciously offered to accompany me.  I was grateful for their company. I told them they were my chaperones!

 

We flew Lufthansa from Charlotte to Munich, then on to Florence.  About an hour before landing in Munich, one of the flight attendants who had provided excellent service, noticed that I had a book on Florence.  She asked me where I was going.  I shared the reason for my trip, to visit the farmhouse that Joyce and I both loved.  I could tell she was touched by my story.

 

A few minutes later she returned with some chocolates and a heartfelt handwritten note: “Have a wonderful stay in Tuscany!  Enjoy the light, the warmth and lots of good wine!  Best wishes!  LH Crew 429, CLT-MUC, 11-4-26.

 

We spent two nights in Florence before going to the farmhouse.  Joyce and I had been there seven times. I found myself walking around Florence, remembering all the experiences that Joyce and I shared in that wonderful city. 

 

On Friday, we caught a train to Poggibonsi.  Gianni picked us up and drove us to the farmhouse.  As we traversed the long gravel road that leads to Torracia, I was remembering Joyce and me driving that same road seven years before.  I had rented a car in Florence, which proved to be a major challenge, and I was anxious to get to the farmhouse where I could park it and forget about it for a while!

 

I remember that wonderful sunny day. I pulled the car down to the small parking area next to the pond where the geese hang out.  We got out of the car and looked around—we felt like we were home.  Then we heard a joyous, “Buongiorno Ray and Joyce!“  It was our dear friend, Maria!  Yes, we were indeed home!

 

This day was much different.  It was raining, which seemed fitting, because my heart was breaking.

 

We pulled up in front of the farmhouse.  I remember Joyce saying goodbye to our friends there in 2019.  I have pictures of Joyce, surrounded by Maria, Donatella, and Maritza as they hugged and said farewell.  

 

I stepped out of Gianni’s taxi as Maria came to greet me.  Through the tears she said, “I have no words.”  Neither did I. We hugged, and cried.  

 

Martiza was in the kitchen preparing our lunch.  I have a wonderful picture of Martiza hugging Joyce on her birthday.  They are both smiling and the homemade “valentine” was on the table beside her with the red rose.  I showed the picture to Martiza.  We hugged, and cried.   

 

 I brought a gift for Maria.  Joyce had carefully made exquisite Chrismons for everyone at the farmhouse in 2019.  After Joyce’s death, I found a container of Chrismons she had started, but never completed.  There was an angel.  It was almost finished.  One wing lacked the radiating rays that she had added to the other wing.  I knew that Joyce would want Maria to have it.  

 

She was deeply moved.  

 

An inviting fire greeted us in the dining area as we gathered for dinner.  As the weather represented my tears and sadness, the warm fire, rich hospitality, and comforting food prepared by Bruno represented the healing balm the farmhouse was providing. 

 

As I made my way back to Il Gufo Reale after dinner, I recalled the many times Joyce and I climbed those stairs together.  The room was warm and welcoming.  The bed that Joyce and I had shared was cozy and comfortable.  I reached over, as I used to every night, to feel her and tell her I loved her and goodnight.  She was not there, of course; but in so many ways she was.  I slept as soundly as I had since Joyce’s death.  There was a sense of peace.

 

The next morning, the sun was shining.  I looked out of the oval window and saw the same scene that greeted Joyce and me each morning in the painting over our bed. I walked around the gardens and marveled at the beautiful Tuscan hills surrounding me.  Then I saw a red rose, just like the one that Maritza had given Joyce on her birthday.  A beautiful red rose, in November! 

 

The woodcutter carefully laid the firewood, as he did every morning, and I enjoyed Maritza’s delicious breakfast beside the roaring fire. 

 

What is it about this place that calls me back?  That beckons me and binds me like no other?  

 

I asked Maria one morning if they had the old books that guests would write in after visiting the farmhouse.  She found the book from 2010.  On October 22, 2010, I wrote these words:

 

“In his biography on St. Francis of Assisi, Dr. Paul Sabatier writes, ‘The greatest crime of our industrial and commercial civilization is that it leaves us a taste only for that which may be bought with money, and makes us overlook the purest and truest joys which are all the time within our reach.’”

 

“In this wonderful week with you at Torraccia di Chiusi we have experienced those pure and true joys through your gracious hospitality, acceptance, and friendship.  You have opened your beautiful home to us and also your hearts.”

 

Nine months after Joyce’s passing, I answered the call to return to this special place.  Once again, I found those pure and true joys that Joyce and I first found sixteen years ago.  

 

And in the comforting cadence, the pleasant predictability, and the soothing similarity of each day, I felt that I had crossed a major milestone in my grief.  It was painful, but necessary and cathartic.  Life will continue. It will never be the same, but it will be good, in a new way—like a new rose blooming in the gardens of La Torraccia di Chiusi.