When Mariangela told me she wanted to start a magazine, based on the French model Ombres & Lumière, I thought she'd lost her mind. Didn't she have enough on her plate already? She was working for Fede e Luce Internazionale as regional coordinator, giving advice to parents of disabled children, and she had her own family—a busy husband and two teenagers still at home (Chicca had recently returned to the Lord). Did she really need another project?
But gradually the idea began to take shape. Marie-Hélène Mathieu, who directed Ombres & Lumière in France at that time, warned that the first five years would be hard. The magazine would be a financial burden. And yes, eventually there would be donors—plenty of them—and money would flow in. In fact, M.H. used the profits from the French magazine to help parents of disabled young people buy homes. But at the start, costs had to be kept down.
Around that time, our old porter's lodge on via Bessarione had just become vacant. The building had five owners—Francesco Gammarelli, his brother Filippo, and their sisters Paola, Maria, and Anna—and they hadn't yet decided what to do with the small apartment. It was tiny, but it might work for a magazine, at least to begin with. Once the journal became financially stable, they could find a larger, paying space.
All five owners agreed to let the magazine use the apartment rent-free.
Twenty-six years have passed. They're still down there, below our flat.
What have we owners gained? Well, mostly beautiful laughter!
Like the day it was raining cats and dogs. Nicole Schulthes and Giacomo, a young man with Down syndrome who worked in the office, arrived soaked through. Giacomo couldn't stay wet all day, so Mariangela told him to come upstairs to me to change. "Go see Olga Gammarelli on the top floor. She'll find you something of Max's or Sabina's." A while later Giacomo returned, clean and dry right down to his shoes. The next day Mariangela said to me: "You were so kind! You found clothes that fit perfectly." "What are you talking about?" I said. I knew nothing about it. After some detective work, the mystery solved itself. Giacomo hadn't felt like climbing five flights of stairs on foot, so he'd stopped at the first floor—which at the time was rented by a German family. Despite the language barrier (I don't think Giacomo explained himself very well), these foreigners understood immediately. They had children of various ages and knew all about emergencies like this: they invited him in, undressed him, and dressed him again. Very kind, but they probably thought they lived in a building of crazy people! Then there's the famous Christmas basket. Every year at Christmas, Mariangela brings me a gift made of lovely little things crafted by the handicapped young people in the workshop: a painting or two, a potholder or crocheted purse, homemade jam, and so on—all arranged in a beautiful basket, which is part of the gift itself, for the five owners. I call my sisters-in-law Paola and Maria, and we examine what's there and how to divide it. Rarely are there five identical items. Sometimes there are two of something, sometimes three or four, but never five of the same thing. Then comes the debate: "There are three jars of jam. Let's each take one."
"But there are five of us. The gift is for all of us. It's not fair to leave out Anna and Filippo because they don't live in Rome."
"What are you saying? We're supposed to go to Fregene with two-fifths of a jar of jam? Filippo will think we're crazy!"
And so on for everything else. Finally we get to the basket, which is the prettiest item and appeals to everyone.
"I'd like the basket." "So would I." "You took it last year."
"I did not. It was one of you two."
We find a handful of candies and chocolates at the bottom. These could be divided, but usually we eat them while we're fighting over the basket.
Yes, having the magazine staff down in the porter's lodge has given us plenty to laugh about!
Olga Gammarelli, 2007