Like many others, I like to discover new blogs and book people. To that end, when I can make the time for it I follow threads and links in what is essentially a random walk through the blogosphere. Sometimes I find a blog that looks really nice and interesting, but then I realize that it has no vital juice left in it because its latest post is dated some time back in 2011. That always evokes the picture of a dog abandoned by its owners, who have gone on vacation and left their pet behind; taking in a dog (read: "blog") seemed like a good idea at the time, but then came the work and commitment...

If a derelict blog looks like somebody's work of love I often try to find the reason why it was abandoned. Some bloggers wind the blog up with a statement that explains the reasons for their decision to stop blogging, and I respect that; but others leave the surfers hanging, with no apparent reasons for the blog owner's defection. Sometimes it has an eerie feel, as if (like in a SF movie) the inhabitants of the blog had been spirited away by some extraterrestrial or diabolic entity.

But this week I came across a heart-wrenching one. The blog's appearance was beautiful and the contents were intelligent and well-written. The face of a pretty young woman, in her early thirties, smiled at me from the "about" sidebar. And then the last post, dated December 2010, said as follows (I am paraphrasing on purpose – see why below):

"I have been told that I have to go back to the hospital for some more tests, so it may be a few weeks before I post again. Please be patient; I will return to my regular posting schedule soon."

It was clear to me, given the time that had passed since that post, that this young woman was not coming back. The sadness that came from reading those lines is only comparable to the feeling that you have inside when reading the inscription on a young person's tombstone: one of tragic waste.

I often listen to the YouTube version of “Jane Jane”, which is one of my favorite Peter, Paul and Mary songs, and every time I watch that beautiful video my brain and my senses split: my brain knows, from dry, factual information stored somewhere in its data base, that Mary Travers is dead, but my senses reject the notion. After all, she is so alive and communicative in that video that you simply can't associate her in any way with Death.

Ancient civilizations appreciated the value of keeping the image of the deceased alive, but lacked the technology. From China through Central and South America and all the way to Egypt, they embalmed the body of the deceased; they made masks resembling their features, they wrapped them up in gauze layers, dried them up and generally did everything in their power to preserve them as much as possible, to perpetuate the existence of the person who, prior to his or her death, inhabited that body.

With the advent of photography, Europeans, who are always lazier and more fastidious than other cultures, developed the macabre practice of photographing the dead. That was an easier way to stay in touch with the departed ones, although not one quite as tangible as actually keeping granddady handy in the cellar. As a result, I have a family album full of photographs that you don’t want to see before bedtime.

The short of it is that I owe my life to The United States of America. Understanding how that is so requires reading a longish explanation but there is a lesson to be learned from it, which is why this post is worth reading.

I was about 9 years old when my father one day said to me, “Americans are decent people. You should remember that.” He had a way of saying things; no matter that I had no clue what he was talking about and why. He simply would come up with a statement and make sure that I memorized it for the future. It wasn’t until years later that I got the whole story, which I had only heard in bits and pieces before.

My father, Edgar (aka Ettore) Luzzatto, grew up in Milan, Italy, in the Fascist era. With the publication of Mussolini's racial laws he decided that he wouldn't put up with the discrimination against the Jews. He applied for an immigrant visa to the U.S. but didn't know that in late 1938 the State Department was restricting the issuance of visas to Italian Jews. His application was denied but he was summoned to the U.S. embassy for an interview with a vice consul, who offered him a visitor visa instead. My father, who was young and headstrong, disdainfully refused and got up to leave but the vice consul, who obviously knew more than he was allowed to say, stopped him. “Take the visa I’m offering you, and use it immediately!” he said. My father was so impressed by the tone of his voice that he took it and left Italy after a few days.

Edgar Luzzatto's 1938 Visitor Visa