"Pacentro". For as long as I can remember, during my life, my father's hometown remained to me a fabled mystery. The tales of himself supporting his family as a child, by walking high up into the mountains and collecting and selling firewood served to create the beginnings of his past in my mind. There were stories of witches and ghosts, of children scuttling around through stone streets adorned with arches and cobblestones, barefoot and laughing, relatives, family and friends. Castles, chapels, church bells and piazzas coming to life after dark. Winter time would isolate the village for months, snow covered the mountains and blocked the roads, denying access to the world outside. They would need to accumulate food and gather firewood during the year to see them through.Times were grim, but the stories of adventure and
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