The Stigmata of gardening...
I had thought to belly-ache about something which has been on my mind of late but, in the meantime, this happened…
The Stigmata of gardening. Three views. A big annoyance. Hurtful too at the beginning. And, on my right hand. Have you ever tried to use a fly-swatter to KILL! KILL!! KILL!!! a fly with such a wound on your swatting hand? Awkward, to be polite. Rough business gardening is, and especially when under the gun, so to speak. I do not feel like either St. Francis or, Padre Pio. I suppose since they were in religious ecstasy, while I was labouring in a Summer’s heat
I got a call from You informing me…. yes, that is how it works in our family… that our five nieces had held a Whatsapp conclave and had mutually decided on the brilliant idea to hold a post-Lockdown reunion at il Poggiolo. Arrival was tentatively scheduled for the Friday before last weekend. Three of the nieces would be towing their fidanzati... or, boy-friends. The focal point of the get-together would be a Pizza Party on the Saturday nite. Ahhh, the convenience of having a Medieval wood-burning oven was too much to resist. One of the boy-friends enthusiastically volunteered to tackle the job of pizzaiolo. A nice boy. Think… a tallish Harry Potter with contacts and in great need of a haircut. He is a prideful maniac of culinary procedure and equipment. I would let him have at it. Always glad to let others do Kitchen Duty, wherever or, however possible.
I did a quick computation: 5 nieces + 3 boy-friends + us 2 uncles = we have enough beds. The Dog sleeps with me. Relieved to know this, I began making lists of what all needed to be organised for the weekend invasion:
call in our wonderful Cleaner to scourer the three separate parts of il Poggiolo… La Casetta, La Casa Grande and the L’Appartamento Azzurro… make the beds, set out towels, deodorise against any trace of Weimaraner…
grocery shop for lifetime supplies of breakfast goodies… Italians mistakenly think a robust breakfast is a bit of caffe’ drowning in latte parzialmente scremato or, skim milk, and an ample quantity of biscotti or, cookies. Preferably with cioccolato on or, inside somewhere. White sugar stars are enjoyed no end too. I guess we must forgive them this need of sugar in the morning. We, Americans, cannot open our mouths on this subject, unless ready to be soundly condemned for our Kellogg’s Coco-Puffs or Frosted Flakes habitually eaten at 7:30 in the morning before catching the bus fro school. At least, we do not drink caffe as children in the USofA!!!… Coca-Cola & Fanta, potato-chips, white wine & beer though most just drink water. Blehhh. There is always hope someone in You’s family will nourish a taste for the products of the vines… and, Oh! Lord! The garden must be brought to perfection.
I have diligently been employed since before Italy’s COVID-19 Lockdown in the first days of March in carrying il Poggiolo’s garden to the glorious splendour it deserves and more so now that the premise is home to a new array of stately terracotta urns and one Baroque vase…. with much thanks to You for his generous donation of said artefacts. Aesthetic competition for the grass to grow like it should and after I have spent back-breaking hours raking, seeding & watering the grass, and yet, with few sprouts to show for my efforts. Birds and ants are the likely culprits. There have been many, many items on the Garden Task List. I won’t bore you with them right now. One items was to direct my Anglo-Saxon-in-Italy energies in building stone steps at the top of the grassy ramp leading from il Poggiolo’s aia or, courtyard, up to L’Appartamento Azzurro and the top most grassy terraces decorated with occasional bald spots of the grassy lawns… damn-it all to Hell.
They look a mess. I’m so embarrassed. More so from small small stains of my blood. Must be my moment for such emotions these days. I won’t belabour you with its list. Disconcerting.
I do not like to wear gloves. They suffocate my hands. I want to feel the materials, Terra Madre… glass & metal shards, in a few instances. These later examples are the vestiges of the previous tenant’s AND neighbour’s respect for The Land or, their rank lack of such an ecological regard to the Mother of all Mothers. The absence of direct contact with whatever I am working with spoils the phun. However, and I keep forgetting this keen fact… denying would be a word closer to the Truth… gloves are an effective prevention against the blisters. Took just three jabs with a trowel and Ecco!!! An accurately placed blister… ON… MY… RAW… HUMAN… FLESH!!!… and in the middle of my writing hand. A personal aside… do forgive me
I was born knock-kneed & pigeon-towed. Like the Tom Hanks character in the movie with the same first name… a fine & historic Southern first name… I had to wear metal splints on my legs for over eighteen months when I was four years old. NO WONDER I AM A PERENNIAL BASKET CASE!!! To add further injury to my already heavy physical woes, I was also born left handed. The last vestige after an enforced and rigorously administered re-training is: I still hold a baseball bat like a left-hander. HA!!!
But, alas, I troweled away with my right hand. The wound or, Stigmata Giardiniere… as opposed to a Stigmata Religiosa… is happily on its way to a complete though somewhat scared recovery. Undeniable proof of my suffering, eh?
Briefly, about the post'-Lockdown Reunion Weekend…
a fine & dandy time was had by one and all. The pizzas got better as the boy-friend gained experience… the Mother Lode of any Education. Everyone slept like babies… because our mattresses are exceptional… and I was not eaten or drunk out of house or, home. They will all be invited back.
An additional aside…
and one I sorely wish I did not have to relate but, nevertheless, I am not responsible for the grotesque gaffes of another person, and in this case, Mr Prince You. If anyone has noticed a white haired person resembling an American game show host wandering about in the above offered video… well… that is Mr Prince You’s ex-boy-friend. Our little pensione in the hills of the Lunigiana was al completo… bed-wise. What a Joy.
Ten days of heat has browned out my grass.