Big Things...
I used to believe we were only entitled to One Big Thing in a life-time. Coming to Italy thirty-odd years ago was mine. My only shot at Big. Cannot recall how I did it. Oh, there are memories… my two best friends in the world put me on TWA… and stories… found work as a fayeshion designer through the back door until I had enough experience to enter at the front door and with no proper schooling in the subject… and many experiences… lived with You and his mother becoming a Saint Benedetto in the process… but, too much time has passed under the proverbial bridge and I’d rather not be bothered now to stop and reflect upon the how-to’s. Not in my character. There’s a family joke about me… one day, My Crazy/Wonderful Auntie asked… If I were to come to a fork in the road, what would I do? And my kid brother piped up… He would just barrel straight on through. My reputation forever cemented in my family.
I find myself at a fork. Can’t seem to get anything accomplished. I’ve arrested Life’s motion momentarily. Take stock as to why. Gads, a personal inventory assessment moment?
Perhaps, I have been too much alone? A probable cause of a self-imposed, and then, inflicted, Lockdown from the middle of February and, continuing on still today regardless of the subsequent easing of restrictions.
The Dog has been a comfort though he lacks the gift of conversation. Yet, he does insist to curl his 37 Weimaraner kilos on my legs as I read an autobiography of Dick Cavett. Anyone remember him? What I’ve read so far, up to Page 55… yes, I know, I ought to be further along, however, in my defence, I alternate between Dick and his often discussed travails with his dick and Hilary Mantel’s herculean third tome on Thomas Cromwell, The Mirror and the Light. Tolstoy is more concise. Poor, dear Thomas, badly portrayed in dozens of Hollywood and English films, his Destiny with an axe is unavoidable. The book is a slow trudge to decapitation. Rather kills any interest to finish the book. Unless, the how-to is of abdiing interest. Like Death in Venice. The Croesus-person could care less. A simple communicator, is he. Yawns if I’m too chatty. He may just imagine that his prime job is to stretch out on the other sofa-bed and sleep in my presence. He’s got that down pat.
Separation from You conspires a greater toll. Our relationship of late is mostly possessed of consistent telephone calls and text messages on Whatsapp. The messages are more successful than the telephone conversations. The former are often clever, ironic or culturally informative. There are links too. The later is like being grilled by your Third Grade teacher in 2 + 2. Not my subject. Not now, not yesterday and not tomorrow. Yet, like a Rottweiler, You delves… telephonically. I am often barely awake. Embarrassingly, my life at il Poggiolo a Codiponte is repetitive and a bore to. report… Got up, drank a caffe’, got dressed, walked the Dog, blah-blah-blah, sat out on the Loggia and watch the sun set behind the enclosing hills of our valley., done for the day. Fascinating. Could be to You, who is decked out in his hospital gear-par-excellence in a hospital and there’s only silence waiting for him at our home in Genoa. I suffer the interrogation as pleasantly as I can.
There was a bout of weekend visits from You right after our release to travel between Italian regions after the 3rd of June. Now, it will be three weeks until I will see You’s overly tan face… some Italians have to have a tan on… and shinning smile again. And his geeefts. The last were two stone ornaments now gracing the walls of our Fish Pond. But, damnation!!! I’ve returned to missing his talking to me when I am 50 to 100 meters away, his constant orders & commands for both house & garden, his professed admonitions to protect my interests… Do not put in double doors to the outside in the sala da pranzo!!! An absolute waste of money… while puttering in the garden with his self-proclaimed list of tasks held in his head… none of which are on my list for him to do… and leaving the mess for me to clean up.
You called this Sunday morning. He did not have good news. He said… Last Monday there were no COVID-19 patients in the hospital where he works. By Thursday there were over 30 and by late Friday night the count was 59. Several in Intensive Care. A spike. It set me back some. As predicted by Dottore You. He’s keen on lockdowns during pandemics. Break the circle. I suspect he’ll more than likely return to his old Temp-job as a Coronavirus dottore. You managed to beat the odds for three months and not come down with what survivors have said… It’s a bitch. And, by the way, eye doctors were the first to die in China from Coronavirus. You’s regular day job is as an eye doctor/surgeon. Will his luck hold? I am along for the ride though at a distance.
In my funk, I felt a need for a revision to my presumed Life’s Plan. Maybe one can have more than just One Big Thing? Credit given where credit is due? The mental motors stirred… an infinitesimal shift in perspective and, a thought slide into an anointed slot…
You’s pretty Big… to me… and though he barely cracks five feet. You & I have been together for twenty-two years. Un Big Amore. One which has survived through our thick or thins, ups ‘n downs, let the Good Times Roll, man. Hell! We even share real-estate. And, by Noon today, there were two telephone calls, three Instagram shares and four Whatsapp messages. I went to pet the Dog to share this discovery. There’s more than just one. There’s You…
…and there’s you too, Croesus-person!!! The Dog, unaware or, oblivious to changes in Spirit about, was thrilled to have my attention. HIs tail wagged. Devotion has its rewards. The Croesus-person’s been A Big Blessing. My sole companion from February 15th until June 5th. Pals together al Poggiolo a Codiponte… and with n’er a dead cat, comes when called, wakes me up like an alarm-clock, happy for any kind of grub, enthusiastic to go on a w-al-k in the Citta’ degli Alberi, prefers to sleep during the day yet, is an attentive assistant when I am assaulting the garden on some pretext or, mission and, does not complain when I watch episodes on Netflix. Books are quieter, he says.
And, the old stones of an 800 year old farm-house in a place in Tuscany know one knows about, keeping me grounded & standing just on the maintenance issues alone. The place threads Italy to You to the Dog to My Life. WOW!!! It is my home… on alternating weekends, Our Home… my kingdom, my seat on Italian soil. May I add, anchor too? The only place I care to be. A Big House surrounded by a Big Garden. Took four years to find it. Took another four years to rebuild and furnish it. I had help. Still much to do everyday. Inside and out. Sun-up to sun-down. And, in between walking the Dog and communications of various sorts from You. And, it’s our future. More plans & projects to perfect it. In the meantime, La Signora-neighbour in the Ugly Yellow House next door has turned ON the water. I am watering plants as I write. This day is sunny & bright & clear and not muggy at all. Dr Bacchus and Mr Hercules are at their posts. Unvaryingly. Ditto for all our urns. The birds are chirping. Unstintingly. The flowers are blooming, especially the hydrangeas. Purple, blue, fuchsia, pink and white. I can sleep in any one of nine beds. My pick though I have my preferences. There’s food and white wine in the refrigerator… yes, I am off the wagon. Enough glasses and plates and silverware for a party of 200 though it’s lately just me. So, again, I get to pick according to mood, I guess. The Dog has his dinner bowl. Clean clothes are in the drawers. However, I need more all white T-shirts. Life is Good. I am thankful. Singular is in the Past. There’s more Big than I realised.
