There is a story recounted in Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers about the city of Roseta, Pennsylvania, not far from Bangor or Nazareth. Italian immigrants settled there in the first part of the 20th century to work in the coal mines. They developed their new city along many of the lines of their beloved village in the motherland.
Scientist and medical experts became interested in the citizenry of Roseta when it was discovered that only a small percentage of the over-fifty population had suffered any heart disease.
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| Roseta Valfortore, by RaBoe/Wikipedia |
Diet was certainly not the reason. Pizza in the homeland was a flatbread with oil cheese and vegetables. The same dish in the states had thicker breads and the addition of pepperoni, salami, and sausages. Rich desserts, a rare treat in the homeland, were served with frequency. The citizens of Roseta, Pennsylvania were not known to jog six miles a day or workout in the local gymnasium. They were under-exercised, over-weight, lived on rich food and drink. They probably smoked. They did all the things health experts say they shouldn't, and none of the things the experts say they should.
So why were they so healthy?
The village.
They lived as a community: greeting one another on the street, sharing meals, stopping in to tell each other news and stories. They had common memories and connections. They knew each other. They were friends. They were family.
I turn 53 years old, this year.
I have stage 2 hypertension.
I am not like the people of Roseta. I am not obese. I do not each rich foods. I do not smoke. I limit my alcohol. But, having moved so often, there is one spectacularly important way that I am not like them: there is no one here who knew me as a child, no one who knew my parents, my aunts, my uncles, no one to tell stories of my grand-parents. I do not have the privilege of sharing a meal with someone who can remember childhood with me. There are no family members, no old friends passing by the street where I live.
Steven and I move every few years. so much so that my own children stumble over the section of applications reserved for "hometown." This tears at my heart. They, too, will have no one to sit a spell with with and re-live childhood memories, or recall the stories and the people of their lives.
The more cosmopolitan among us think families and neighborhoods with lasting roots are quaint and oh-so-charming. I have come to believe they are essential.
Photo Credit:
//commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Roseto_Valfortore_038_(RaBoe).jpg
