#hurton

Trento Film Festival: “Don Hurton? Un mito e un faro”

I soccorritori omaggiano don Josef Hurton, fondatore, nel 1966, della Scuola nazionale cani da valanga del Corpo nazionale Soccorso alpino e speleologico del Cai. L’ex parroco di Solda, quasi novantenne, racconta, nel corso di un incontro alla Caritro, moderato dal giornalista Stefano Ardito, la nascita del soccorso con i cani. Il presidente del Trento Film Festival Roberto De Martin annuncia:…

Pushing his hair back looking into his crystal reflection. He was wearing a pair of jeans his uncle had given him. They were in good shape. His parents had always wanted to him to wear the best, what he always could have, but it never fit him. How could you walk, or play music in silk black slacks? He would never understand it. Why would he wear something so fine in school when others couldn’t? Finer events maybe but not as a label. Wearing it every day until it seeped through his skin. His parents never understood his liking to casual clothing, why he liked shopping in muggle London. They were stubborn, maybe even a bit selfish. He stuck out in the family. The Gryffindor. The layed back good hearted. The only thing he had received from the serpent house was his determination for music; he has just as stubborn when others insisted they weren’t good enough. It always came to mind when he looked at his reflection. Never doubts, but knowing the little things. The reason he had been thinking about his family must have been that shy girl he met a few moments ago. She mentioned her sister being ashamed of her. He didn’t expect her to mention something like that only just after they met, but maybe it wasn’t personal. It could have been true, obvious when her sister talked to other people about Frieda. But he didn’t know why, and he wouldn’t be able to. She was gorgeous, brilliant even. Shaking his head he brushed off the thoughts. Pulling over a soft black jacket over his plain white shirt, he grabbed a small key and headed out the door.