“This winter is over too. It was cold, long, and painful. It hadn't been this cold in many years. That cursed winter took away two of my closest friends; the first in December just before Christmas, the other in mid-January when it snowed so much. It felt like it would never stop. I remained trapped inside my house for three days because snow and wind blocked the front door. I prayed so much during that week, and thank God, my daughter with the help of neighbors came to my rescue. Fortunately, I had some bread and a piece of cheese at home.”
These intimate and trembling words belong to Mr. Donato from Corleto Perticara, a small municipality in the southern Lucanian Apennines. He whispered them to me in a low, hesitant voice during one of the first warm, sunny spring days, sitting on a bench outside his home.
Solitude and the Grip of Frost
With eyes half-closed to protect himself from the first glare of the new season, Mr. Donato shared the details of those terrible days. The snow, accumulated meters high due to strong wind gusts, had barred the exit of his modest home, keeping him trapped inside for three entire nights.
On the second day of captivity, his supply of firewood—his sole defense against the biting mountain cold—had run out. To survive the freezing Apennine night, he climbed into bed wearing almost every piece of winter clothing he owned.
He smiles with irony mixed with relief as he recalls the moment his daughter, alarmed by the lack of phone calls, finally managed to reach him by shoveling snow alongside neighbors, finding him in bed covered under endless layers of wool.
Fear of Return
Gathering this testimony, I had the clear impression that Mr. Donato spoke softly not from weariness, but out of a sort of reverential fear toward "the terrible winter", almost afraid of being overheard and causing it to turn back.
I gently reassured him, saying:
“Don't worry, Donato. Winter is over.”
This photograph and story of everyday micro-resilience are part of my visual archive on the territory, described in the general manifesto of Un giro in Basilicata, and ideally connect to the memories of peasant emigration narrated in Sono nato qui.
Roberto Lacava